The Very Verge of Remembrance
by Smaointe Salach
Summary: Re-Upload! I'm Back! * It is Raoul's mysterious dying wish that Christine find Erik. When she does, their reunification is turbulent, to say the least. The Angel of Music and his pupil quickly unravel the tangle of greed behind Raoul's command.
1. Chapter 1

******Author's Note: As many of my former readers know, I was extremely sick with hyperemesis gravidarum and cholestasis during my pregnancy. I was pregnant from February to October of 2013, and I spent about half the pregnancy in the hospital and the other half with IVs in my arm and on bed rest before delivering my baby at 36 weeks via c-section! Phew. Anyway, now that that adventure is over and the adventure of mamahood has begun, I needed about 3 months to get back on my feet and get a routine settled before I felt comfortable re-uploading my works and getting back into writing. I hope you all forgive me and I hope you all look forward to reading new things from me half as much as I look forward to writing them in the very little free time I have as a stay-at-home mama. (Yes, this means that naptime = fanfic writing... hehehe). Thank you all so much for your support. I love you dearly. **

* * *

**Overture**

* * *

"Hush, Raoul." Christine put a cool cloth to his forehead, scorching with fever, and pressed her lips gently upon his trembling cheek.

Raoul had been sick with a fever for nearly four days. He'd had a small cut from a razor blade upon his hand, and though he had treated the wound carefully, it had leaked green fluid and smelled putrid just days after sustaining the injury. Soon enough, Raoul was taken with fever, and now he lay in the bed he normally shared with Christine in their spacious Paris home.

She fretted over him like a mother hen, but his condition only worsened with time. Nearly two years had passed since the Opéra Populaire had burned, and in that time Christine had come to love Raoul more deeply than she had thought possible. They had tried for two years to conceive a child, of course, but for whatever reason God had not deemed it their fate to be parents.

So now it was just the two of them, aside from the smattering of servants flitting about the house, as Christine tried to cool Raoul's feverish head.

"Christine," he murmured, slowly turning his head toward her so that his glassy eyes bored into hers. "If I die, you must go to him. He will keep you safe. Find him."

Christine furrowed her brow. She was baffled. Raoul and Christine had become pariahs in his elevated society since their marriage; it was not exactly considered proper or appropriate for a vicomte to marry a stage performer. Never, though had Christine felt unsafe. If for some reason the worst were to pass and Raoul did die, Christine would inherit the houses and wealth... unless she encountered some sort of threat from Raoul's brother. He always looked at Christine with disdain, rarely spoke to her... but would he actually go so far as to put Christine in danger? She scrunched her brow even further and cooed a soft 'shhh...' into Raoul's ear. She pressed the cool cloth against his cheek.

"Find him, Christine," Raoul said again, his eyes burning with what Christine interpreted as feverish mania. "Find him and he will keep you safe... when I am gone."

Christine shook her head, confused and saddened. "Raoul, my sweet," she whispered, "you are delusional from your sickness. I do not know of whom you speak. I am safe, and, anyway, you are not going to die."

Raoul shook his head against the pillow and a solitary tear squeezed from his glistening eye. "You know him well enough," Raoul said, his voice rasping from the effort of speech. "Your Angel of Music."

Christine felt her heart skip a beat, then flutter into a rapid, uneven rhythm. Raoul wanted her to find the Phantom - he who had burned the Opéra, taken Christine prisoner, threatened Raoul's life, extorted and murdered... Raoul wanted Christine to find this man and cling to him for safety?

Truly, she thought, the fever had driven him mad.

There couldn't possibly be a less safe place for her than in her Angel's arms, could there? Of course, over the past two years, Christine had thought of him night and day. She had wondered in quiet moments if he was alive, if he was healthy, maybe even happy. She had worried that in their last moments together she had taken his heart and shattered it like glass, and she wished with all her might that she could at least let him know that she cared for him. Still, though, there was fear beneath it all. Christine was horribly afraid that if she was ever discovered by her Angel of Music, that he would kill her husband and take her prisoner again. She feared that he would destroy her happiness, the bliss into which she had submerged herself after the joyous day of her wedding to Raoul.

She had begged Raoul not to put a wedding announcement in the newspaper, because she knew that He would find it and be crushed. Raoul had insisted, and Christine had felt pangs of guilt mingled with her joy. That was how it had been since the beginning of it all. Joy and sorrow, intertwined like lovers in her mind and heart, burning and freezing her soul at once as she tried to balance her guilt over the Phantom and her happiness with Raoul.

And now, as Raoul lay very ill, he was commanding Christine to find the Phantom. Why? Ostensibly to keep her safe... Christine found it puzzling and yet understandable that Raoul would think this way. In all the times the Phantom had struck others, he had never once put Christine's life in jeopardy. He would always protect her, more like a guardian angel than the fallen one he purported to be. If Raoul had some reason to fear for Christine's life, and was fretting over her safety, perhaps it did make sense that he would turn in his fevered mind to the Phantom. With him, wherever he was, she would be hidden, provided for, protected.

But none of it mattered, Christine told herself with gritted teeth, because Raoul was not going to die. But even as she tried to convince herself of this, she could see the life slipping from Raoul's eyes. His sallow, sunken cheeks crinkled as the corners of his lips curled up in a tiny, final smile and he whispered once more,

"Find him, Christine."

Then the glint in his eyes was gone and as if he was staring through her, and his lips went slack. In that instant, Christine knew that he was gone. She realized with a stab of grief that his last spoken word had been her name, and she huddled over him and dissolved into heaving sobs.

She was not hysterical, but rather emotionally overcome with sadness. She had been steeling herself for Raoul's death for two days now, but it did not make it any easier to bear when he slipped from the world. Her confusion about his dying wish only served to complicate the tempest raging in Christine's grief-stricken mind.

She stayed with Raoul for an hour before a doctor was called. The doctor pronounced Raoul dead and arranged for his body to be removed from the house. He gave Christine some opium to make her sleep and checked her for signs of transmitted infection

The next day, Christine placed a notice in the newspaper announcing that Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny had joined his Lord in Heaven. She included the fact that his widow, Christine (née Daaé), was overcome with grief.

She placed the notice in every newspaper in town, praying with all her might that her Angel of Music would see it and emerge from the shadows to honor Raoul's dying wish - to keep her safe from unseen and unknown dangers.

The day after Raoul's funeral, Christine had heard nothing from the Phantom, nor seen him in any place she'd been, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. She walked briskly and determinedly from her house, the hood of her cape shrouding her porcelain face. She did not stop walking until she stood before a very familiar monument - the skeleton of the Opéra Populaire.

* * *

**Affetuoso**

* * *

Christine pushed open the side entry of the opera house. The front had been locked, and when she had finally found an entrance, she was astonished at what she discovered. The inside of the opera house was completely destroyed by the fire that had been started two years earlier by her Angel's... tantrum. Perhaps it would be more fair to categorize it as an overreaction to Christine's unmasking him.

It didn't matter now, Christine thought ruefully as she pushed her hood back farther from her face. Either way, the Opéra Populaire was in ruins. It still smelled like burning in here, it still had the fetid odor of a dead place filled with dead things and dead memories.

Christine ventured through the auditorium, marveling at the sight of the once magnificent crystal chandelier lying in pieces, strewn across rows of seats. She ascended onto the stage and turned toward the audience that consisted only of ghosts. She began to sing the aria from Hannibal, the very same aria in which she had triumphed that night two years earlier.

"There will never be a day when I won't think of you..."

Her last note, instead of thundering magnificently throughout the auditorium, trailed off into silence as Christine thought of many people who were now gone from her life - people upon whom she had relied for strength. Meg and Madame Giry, her Angel of Music, her beloved Raoul. All gone.

She stalked dejectedly from the stage, the hem of her black mourning gown trailing in the dust on the floor. Christine managed to push through the fallen, charred debris until she reached the room that had been her dressing room in the backstage area. She pushed open the door, smearing the soot and smoke grime from her hand onto her dark dress and stepping cautiously inside. It broke her heart to see the room in its state. The wallpaper glue having melted in the heat of the fire, there were curls of paper falling haphazardly from the walls. Her vanity was destroyed by fire and a ceiling beam had collapsed straight into the middle of the room. But... the piece for which she had come... there it was.

The mirror.

There was smoke damage to the front of it, but Christine was able to wrench it open and reveal the dark staircase leading down to the bowels of the opera house. Taking a deep and trembling breath, she stepped past the mirror and began stepping cautiously down the slippery stone stairs. Soon enough she was bathed entirely in darkness, and Christine realized with a pang of fear and apprehension that she had no lantern, no torch, no candle, even, to light her way. How stupid of her, she admonished herself, to start walking down the stairs blindly.

It was too late now, she thought. She'd be blind going back up, or she'd be blind continuing, and if she continued she would reach him sooner. Her heart fluttered a bit at that thought, that she would see him soon, and she wondered what his reaction would be. She reached out around herself for support and guidance as she continued down the long, winding stairs. Would he be glad to see her? Would the embers of the past glow brightly enough to make a reunification possible? Or would he cast her out, enraged at their last parting, and doom her to her unknown fate?

After more of such self-doubting thought, Christine reached the lake at the bottom of the opera house. She suddenly realized that she had no way of crossing it. Well, she cursed herself, what had she been expecting? Of course he would have the gondola where he was, not over here on the other shore waiting for her to arrive and use it. Faced with no other choice, Christine kicked off her satin shoes and untied her heavy cloak. She placed them carefully on the stone ground and stepped into the water, which was lukewarm and felt like a bath gone tepid. Less afraid suddenly than she had been, Christine pushed herself forward with her legs until she could no hardly stand in the water, and then she began to swim. Even from here, she could hear distant organ music, wailing and sorrowful, and she longed to be by the Phantom's side for a reason she would not have been able to explain.

She pushed through the cloudy green water until she reached the portcullis through which she could see the Phantom's ransacked home. She pulled herself up to the portcullis and gripped the rusty grate, gazing through the holes and gritting her teeth against the pounding and dissonant chords being pressed out onto the instrument by the organist seated on the bench.

She could see the back of him, clad in a wrinkled linen shirt, his hair disheveled, and she gulped. She'd dreamed of his face for two years. In some dreams, she had slapped his good cheek, hard, for all that he'd done to her. In others, she relived their one and only kiss and saw him smile meekly and then dissolve into tears, over and over again.

In Christine's dreams, the Phantom never wore his mask.

She gripped the grate more tightly, feeling the ragged edges of the metal dig into her fingers and palms. She had approached quietly, silently even, but now she was shivering and she could take it no longer. She called out over the din of the organ, her voice sounding not as sure as she would have liked it to do.

"Angel?"

The organ stopped, abruptly, and the Phantom buried his face in his hands. He did not turn around to face Christine or acknowledge her in any way, and when she saw him shaking with sobs she was confused. Then realization dawned on her. He'd heard her voice from upstairs, when she'd sung alone on the stage. He'd heard her call out now. But surely there was no chance she was actually here, at least in his mind, so he almost certainly thought himself insane.

Christine sighed impatiently. She had no time to convince him that she was not an apparition or a figment of his imagination.

"Angel..." she said again, her voice now echoing in the silence of the chamber. This time, the Phantom turned swiftly on the organ bench and looked up with wide and wild eyes. Christine tried hard not to gasp. He did not wear his mask, but that was not what shocked her about his face. It was his haggard appearance, the look of grief and sorrow and depression that he wore on his countenance, that stunned her into silence and made her eyes burn.

She lost all control then, and she began to cry as soon as her eyes met his. Perhaps it was her own grief over Raoul that brought her so instantaneously to tears. Perhaps it was simply the shock of being here again, two years after her traumatic parting with her Angel. But Christine suspected the reason for her sobs was the look of pain that was printed so clearly on the Phantom's face in the instant he realized that she was really and truly here.

"Christine..." His whisper echoed off of the damp stone walls and reverberated in Her ears, bring back a flood of memories in a flash. The hundreds of times she'd heard him whisper from somewhere unseen, the moment she realized he was in love with her, the second she tore his mask from his face during Don Juan Triumphant. Christine shivered harder, abruptly overwhelmed. "Christine..."

"Oh, Angel." Christine shook with her cries and gripped the portcullis so hard that she saw little streams of blood coursing from her clenched palms. "Please, I know that I have hurt you, abandoned you. I know you should hate me, but I beg you to open the gate and let me in. Please, Angel."

"Erik."

She was so taken aback by the staccato bite in his voice that it took her a moment to realize he'd just given her his name.

"Your angel is dead and rotting in hell. There is no more opera of which to be a Phantom or a Ghost. I am... simply Erik."

As he spoke, he stood slowly from the bench and waded out into the water. He pulled a crank and the portcullis slowly rose. Christine swam quickly under it and noted with relief that the water quickly shallowed to where she could walk easily to the shore.

She tentatively approached the Phantom - Erik - and held out her hands as if she were reaching for a life preserver in a churning sea. Erik recoiled slightly from her, shocking her into retreat. He turned briskly over his shoulder and waded back up to his organ bench. Christine did not follow him. Instead she padded along the wet stone floor, avoiding shards of glass from broken mirrors that imperiled her bare feet. She walked over to a little chair with a broken back and sat down delicately. Her black silk dress was completely destroyed by her swim, and she was soaked through. She shivered fiercely and waited for Erik to speak. At last, he did, though he was facing away from Christine.

"I saw in the newspaper that your husband is dead."

"He is," Christine affirmed, her voice cracking.

"What happened?" Erik asked lightly, as if he did not care. Christine gulped and forced herself to answer with a single word.

"Fever."

From behind, she saw Erik nod his head in understanding. "I am sorry... that you are grieving," he said lowly, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I saw no mention of issue in the death announcement."

"No." Christine shook her head. "We had no children."

"But you tried, didn't you?" Erik seethed suddenly, turning on Christine with a vicious look in his eyes. "He touched you, he fucked you, didn't he, Christine?" He spoke through clenched teeth, and for a brief moment Christine was both appalled and frightened.

She shrugged helplessly and shook her head sadly. "He was my husband." Her eyes welled with heavy tears, shed for Raoul, and shed because her Angel was so unhappy with the choice she had made.

Erik hauled himself very purposefully and slowly from the bench, never taking his eyes from Christine's. "You never once came to me in the last two years," he noted. "You come to me now, now that your husband is dead and gone. Why, Christine? Why would you torture me in this way? Does your cruelty know no bounds?" He began to walk very deliberately toward her, his boots crunching the shards of glass underfoot. "I will not be the second fiddle, Christine. I refuse to be fed the scraps that boy left behind. He's already used you, ruined you, and all because you chose it. You chose him. More specifically, you chose to leave me. And now you come back because... Why? Because you need to be loved?"

"No... No, Erik, that's not it at all... you were never just the man in second place," Christine insisted, feeling hot tears tumbling down her cheeks. She shook her head fervently and said, "You don't understand. It was Raoul who sent me to you. He told me to come to you after he died."

Erik narrowed his eyes and took a small step backward. "You're right. I do not understand."

"Raoul lay dying, Erik, and he told me to find you because you were the only one who could keep me safe. And, he knew as well as I, that you were the only one who could ever hope to fill the void he would leave in my heart." Christine looked into Erik's eyes beseechingly, imploring him to comprehend why she had fled her posh home and snuck into his lair. "Even I doubted him, but now I know, Erik, that if I can not have Raoul, then I must have you. It is not that I preferred him to you. You gave me an impossible choice that night two years ago. It pained me so much to leave you. But I could never have you both, and he loved me just as much as you did."

"Yet you still chose him," Erik pointed out, ignoring what Christine had said about Raoul's dying wish.

"I chose him because I was afraid," Christine insisted. "I was a scared little girl, but I'm not so little anymore. Erik, there is a chance that if you send me back to my home, I will be killed by a man who seeks the money Raoul left behind for me."

Again, Erik narrowed his eyes. "By whom?" he pressed.

"Raoul's brother. The Comte, Philippe. He hates me, and he would sooner see me dead than let me have the fortune he sees as rightfully being his."

At that, the man who had been known as The Phantom of the Opera straightened his spine and sighed deeply. He shook his head. "If your safety is in danger, you must stay here."

"Thank you, Erik." Christine collapsed onto her arms on the little table before her, sighing with relief and thanking God that she had made him see.

"But, I will not be used by you, Christine," Erik continued. "If you harbor no true affection for me, you must be truthful. Please, I beg it of you, do not wound me more deeply than you already have."

Christine furrowed her brow concernedly and rose slowly from the chair. She took a step forward and closed the gap between herself and Erik. She cautiously snaked her arms around his torso and felt him hover his hands over her back as he reacted with shock to the sudden physical contact between them. Christine pulled herself closer against him, meshing her body flush against his, and felt the warmth of his palms through the material on her wet, cold back.

"Of course I bear you affection," Christine scoffed, sounding insulted as his shirt muffled her voice. Their embrace was not suggestive or sexual in nature, but rather an expression on Christine's part of genuine emotion. "You may say you are no longer my Angel, but I do not believe you. You always have been, and you always will be."

* * *

**Soli**

* * *

Christine shivered violently against Erik's form, feeling herself quake from the inside out. Part of it was from being wet and cold from her swim, but a good deal of it was her body's instinct to protect Christine from heartache... and being this close to Erik so soon after Raoul's death seemed like a swift path to heartache.

She took a trembling step backward and stumbled, tripping on her sopping gown. Erik reached out quickly and caught her arm, clutching her thin bicep in his strong hand. Christine nodded gratefully at him, taking a shaking breath.

"I promise I will keep you safe," Erik vowed, staring directly into Christine's deep brown eyes, "and not just because the boy wanted it. Why don't you go put on something warm and dry and rest?"

"What have you got that I can wear?" Christine asked curiously. Erik guided her up through the cavern, holding her hand and sidestepping debris and glass pieces. At last he reached the little area where the swan bed was, where he'd laid her down years before and watched her as she slept. Christine was overcome by the memory of waking in this room, shocked and frightened.

Erik motioned for Christine to stay put next to the bed, and he walked briskly away. In a moment there was complete silence, and Christine felt the prickle of fear creep up her spine as she realized she was alone. She did not like being alone right now. Beyond making her grief more acute, it genuinely frightened her.

But then he was back, so suddenly that Christine had no idea from where he'd come, and in his hands he carried a little bundle of clothing. He thrust the bundle awkwardly toward Christine, and she took it wordlessly, nodding her thanks. Erik brushed his palms together with relief when she took the clothes, and she eyed him curiously.

Christine glanced down to see that it was a nightgown, one that was oddly familiar to her, and a midnight blue crushed velvet robe. Suddenly she realized where she had seen the clothing before.

"These were mine," she breathed, looking up at Erik's scarred face. He simply nodded once, and Christine saw his fists clench and unclench at his sides, saw his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed heavily.

"They survived the fire," Erik informed her, "along with a few other items of yours I've saved… on the chance you ever returned for them. I didn't want them to be looted…"

He turned his face away, searching for something, _anything_, upon which to fix his gaze besides her brown eyes. He was embarrassed, Christine could see, that he'd kept her belongings. Perhaps two years ago Christine would have thought it odd or frightening that he'd done so. After a while of pondering how her Angel of Music expressed love, though, she knew that his intentions were true in what he did. She smiled gently and reached her hand out to touch his forearm, bare from where his shirtsleeves had been rolled up. At the feel of her skin on his, Erik flinched as though he'd been shocked. Christine was troubled by how, once again, he reacted to her more like an abused dog than like a man who loved her.

She caught his eyes and smiled again, very sadly, and whispered, "Thank you, Erik."

His name was still alien and awkward in her mouth, but she called him by it nonetheless because it was what he had insisted. If there was one lesson she had gleaned from him in all her years of tutelage, it was to obey him, if for no other reason than avoiding his temper.

Erik cleared his throat, breaking the uncomfortable and heavy silence in the room. He stared at his hands, tearing his eyes from Christine as if it pained him to do so, and mumbled in a craggy voice, "I shall leave you to it, then, Madame."

He bowed a bit and took a step backward, but just as he turned over his shoulder to go, Christine panicked, realizing that she could not undress herself.

"Wait!" she exclaimed.

Erik turned back around, slowly, the eyebrow on his unmarred side raised in expectation.

Christine blanched, feeling the color drain from her face as she realized what she must ask of him. Then she felt it creep back up with embarrassment as she spoke, her ears and neck growing hot with humiliation.

"The clothing that 'noble' women wear… that is to say… my dress and corset… how do I… they fasten in the back, you see, and…"

She stumbled over her words, nearly reduced to tears by the time that Erik's lips twitched up in a knowing little smile and he said in a murmur, "You need help, then, do you?"

She nodded wordlessly, shivering again as Erik moved behind her and set to the tiny buttons coursing down her back. She could feel his fingers shaking, trembling as they worked to unfasten the miniature fastenings. Christine set the nightgown and robe she was holding down upon the bed beside her and clasped her hands over her damp stomach. She sighed lightly as Erik finished at last with the buttons, his quaking fingers moving to untie the bustle at Christine's waist.

She reached behind her shoulder and pulled the wet, ruined silk dress around her body to step out of it. The silence of the room grew thicker as she did. When she untied the single petticoat she'd worn out of the house and cast that, too, aside, the only sound she could hear was Erik's constant but quivering breath behind her. She did not turn to face him, for her shame was too great. She was just widowed, and to stand and be undressed by a man who had once professed love for her felt wrong in so many ways, and yet intrinsically right, particularly since Raoul had commanded her to come here. Christine was so confused that she once more felt her eyes sting as she crossed her hands over her chest and stood with her back to Erik again.

He began to untie and loosen the laces of her steam-molded, long, curvy corset. Christine realized that no words had been spoken between them in many long minutes, but she could not for the life of her think of anything remotely insightful or helpful to say. Helplessly, she began to hum a tune she remembered from when her father was still alive, a Swedish folk tune called _Herr Mannelig._

Erik urged her to put her arms above her head and hoisted the loosened corset up and off, mussing her piled curls a bit as he did. Christine was more concerned with how her sodden chemise, the last remaining layer of clothing she wore, clung translucently to her form. She stopped humming when she glanced down and saw that her nipples, belly button, and Venus mound were perfectly visible through the clinging wet fabric. She could only assume that her back and bum were just as exposed.

Realizing that she might as well be completely nude for all the body she was revealing, Christine again crossed her arms over her chest and turned cautiously to face Erik. He stared, wide-eyed, away from her, fixing his gaze on the nightgown that lay folded on the bed.

Christine reached up with one hand and gently guided his chin so that he looked at her, and when his eyes met hers she heard his breath hitch in his throat.

"Why are you here?" Erik asked suddenly, and Christine furrowed her brow, confused. She shook her head.

"I told you," she whispered. "It was my husband's dying wish that I find you."

"And you have found me," Erik affirmed, blinking. "And now what?"

Christine had a sudden flash of images race through her mind, all showing her possibilities of 'now what.' She could slap him for his suggestiveness. She could kiss him fiercely and reach her hand between them and fondle him until he wanted to take her in the bed. He could make her forget her anguish, if only for a few moments.

Instead, she came to her senses and reached her hand back up to cup the scarred side of his face in her hand. At his touch, he did not flinch, nor did he recoil, as he had done earlier. Instead, Erik leaned into Christine's palm and breathed deeply, as if inhaling her aroma from the ambient air. His eyes closed gently and his lips curled in the slightest hint of a smile.

"And now," Christine pronounced, her voice a heartbroken whisper, "I grieve my husband."

Erik did not seem surprised or angry at her answer. He did not behave like a spurned paramour. He nodded into Christine's hand, and then, his eyes still shut, he reached to take her tiny hand between his own two strong ones and brought her fingers to his lips. He planted the gentlest hint of a kiss on her knuckles, and Christine felt her knees go weak. Erik's eyes fluttered open and he inhaled deeply again. Wordlessly, he bowed in a sign of reverence, and he turned and walked silently from the space.

Christine had no idea how dreadful it would feel to be alone until she sensed his absence a few moments later. After she'd dressed in the nightgown, as she cried into a pillow with hot tears of confusion gushing from her eyes, she realized that, perhaps, indeed, Raoul had wanted the Phantom of the Opera to keep her safe in his absence. More than anything, though, Christine was beginning to suspect that he'd wanted the Phantom of the Opera to keep her company.

* * *

** Doloroso**

* * *

_Raoul's brother Philippe watched as Christine collapsed, the knife he'd plunged into her abdomen still lodged in her flesh. She went wide-eyed, in horror and shock, betrayed by the family she'd come to call her own._

_When she cried out for help, it was not Raoul's name she called into the black that was overtaking her._

_"Erik!" she mewled, her voice sounding weak but urgent. "Angel! Please. Please... My Angel of Music..."_

"Christine."

She jolted awake, terrified of the nightmare she'd just endured and startled to see Erik standing, shirtless and panting, beside her bed. Most curiously, he had on a white leather mask that looked slightly different from the last one Christine had seen him wear. Odd, she thought distantly, for him to be at once so covered and so exposed.

Gulping and gasping for air, Christine self-consciously pulled the blankets up more tightly around herself and looked questioningly at Erik through the dim light of a few distant candles.

"You were dreaming." Erik stated the obvious. "You were calling for me. Are you all right?"

Christine just nodded, embarrassed that she had audibly vocalized during her nightmare. "I'm fine," she croaked, realizing for the first time just how thirsty she was.

"Here." Erik stalked away quickly and returned a moment later with a flared wine glass filled with a rich-looking red. Christine sipped gratefully, hoping the wine would steady her nerves.

"What happened to your shirt?" Christine asked pointedly, and Erik looked down at his torso as if realizing for the first time that he was half naked in her presence. His good cheek reddened at her question and he licked his lips before saying simply,

"I always sleep without one."

"Were my cries so loud as to rouse you from sleep?" Christine asked disbelievingly, and Erik just sighed.

"I confess I had difficulty falling asleep knowing that you were so near to me."

Christine stared at him for a moment, her breath almost silent in the cavernous space. When she spoke, she could scarcely believe the words coming from her own lips. "I think Raoul did not want me to be alone," she murmured. "I think that is why he sent me to you."

Erik said nothing for a moment, but his eyes scanned the room as if he was thinking carefully. He said at last, "As I told you, Christine, I shall play understudy to no man. Nor shall I be the broom you use to sweep up the pieces of your heart, shattered by grief. If all I am to you is a bandage for your emotional wounds..."

"Spare me the metaphors." Christine held up her hand impatiently, and Erik looked offended for a minute. She met Erik's eyes and said softly, "I loved him. I did. I confess it readily. But, Erik, all that while, it was always you who brought me comfort, even in your absence. And he knew that. So he knew that, when he was gone, there was only one place for me... by your side."

A moment later, Erik was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking rather despondent. He seemed, somehow, discouraged by Christine's words. She was not sure how to make him understand that really, truly, she cared for him. She wanted to be here with him in this moment.

She needed him, because she could not stand it to be alone.

So she pulled herself toward him and ghosted her hands slowly, gently, sweetly across his whip-scarred back. Her contact was soothing and seductive, though she herself had no idea what her intentions were in touching him this way.

His spine straightened and he trembled beneath her fingertips, his skin quivering from excitement or anxiety - Christine was not sure which. She pulled herself nearer still to him and hoisted herself up onto her knees. She edged her face, inch by inch, closer to his neck, not sure what she would do when she got there. Perhaps she would be so bold as to plant a kiss there, or maybe she would just burrow her face in the crook of his neck. She squared her hands on his shoulders for support and continued moving her face toward his head.

Finally, unable to stand the tension and slow movements any longer, Erik whirled and caught Christine's face in both his hands. She remembered vividly as his lips touched hers that, the last time they'd kissed, she had initiated the kiss. She had kissed him. This time, it was different for so many reasons. Their last kiss had been feverishly earnest and urgent and new and frightening. She'd also not wanted it as much as she should have done.

This time, she was lost in his lips the moment they pressed against hers. He did not push her mouth open or venture his tongue toward her. He simply pushed his cushiony lips gently against hers and held her face in his hands, lovingly stroking her skin with his thumbs and then planting small, sweet kisses all over Christine's mouth.

It was the least sexual of kisses in which she'd ever participated, and yet it was by far the most romantic. There was no hedonism in it, no burning urgency to move faster, get on to the next step. It was a simply expression of adoration, the sort of kiss a bride dreams of receiving at the altar. Then he was kissing her cheeks, and her forehead, and Christine could feel the love radiating from him, could feel him simmering with devotion, and she was abruptly more aroused than she had expected to be.

This is not right, she told herself angrily. Raoul is hardly cold in the ground and I am already kissing another man. Raoul has just barely met his Savior and I am already talking of love for another. I am a wench, a wretched, sordid wench, and I deserve nothing.

She pulled away from Erik, her eyes going wide with shock, and she did something she immediately regretted doing. She slapped him, hard, the sting in her hand telling her that his face must be smarting terribly.

Erik put a hand to his cheek gently, but did not look surprised. Instead, he looked hurt, like she had wounded him more deeply on the inside than the outside with the slap.

He nodded knowingly and rose very slowly from the bed. "I will wait until the end of my life if I must," he said in a strained voice. "I will wait as long as it takes for you to be ready to come to me. Please do let me know if there is anything I can do to make you more... comfortable... other than leaving."

He did not look angry as he walked away from her, back to wherever it was that he slept, and Christine was suddenly roiled with guilt from all angles. She should not have slapped him, she chided herself. He was only trying to comfort her, to respond to her own touches. And, yet, her own husband was still freshly gone from her, and she needed to mourn him properly, to feel grief and sadness and loss, before moving on to the next lover like some sort of shameless harlot.

Hot tears of shame boiled to the surface as Christine realized that she was alone again, and the thought occurred to her that she was very tired indeed of crying.

* * *

"We should speak, Madame, about finances." Erik raised his glass to his lips and imbibed a small sip of water. He ripped a piece of bread from the hunk before him and brought it to his mouth, where he began chewing the tough crust as quietly as he could manage. He cleared his throat when Christine, confused, did not answer.

"I can pay you rent for my care," she said quickly, at last. "Of course I can. I will simply need to get to a bank..."

"The only reason I ask, Christine, is that I am no longer receiving my monthly salary, as there are no opera managers to provide it to me," Erik said pointedly, taking another small sip of water.

"Are you quite out of money?" Christine asked, her voice riddled with pity. Her face bore concern, and Erik shot her a look of contempt from behind his new mask.

"No, Madame, I am not," he answered, pushing the little plate of bread across the small table toward Christine. She absently took some of it and realized she'd not eaten in two days, and her stomach churned. She cautiously took a bite as Erik continued. "I was paid twenty thousand francs per month, but of course I did not spend twenty thousand francs per month. I had nearly a hundred thousand francs in savings, and I have subsisted off that money for the past two years."

Christine quickly calculated in her mind. He couldn't have been spending more than a few thousand francs per month over the last two years. His standard of living had clearly decreased, and as she glanced around she noticed he'd not kept up or done many repairs to his home in the wake of the disaster.

"I can very easily get us one million francs today," Christine said abruptly, staring at the broken mirrors whose shards littered the floor.

"You will not go alone," Erik announced. "I have made a vow to protect you, and that much I shall do."

"Me, and your money with me," Christine scoffed, and Erik looked genuinely hurt at her dismissal. There was an awkward moment of silence between them as Christine wordlessly apologized with her eyes and Erik bit his lip in acceptance.

Ten minutes later, they had a plan worked out between them. Christine would walk to the Banque de France on the Rue Volney, exiting the Opera House when the coast was clear on the Rue Scribe. She would take with her a carpetbag, which Erik would provide, and proceed to the bank. The entire way there and back, she would be shadowed by Erik, who would watch and guard her from a few yards away, hidden in ways only he knew how to hide.

At the bank, she would withdraw one million francs from the account she had shared with Raoul. She would put the 100-franc notes into the carpetbag and meet Erik at the corner outside the bank. She would give him the bag so that she would not be so vulnerable carrying it back to the Opera, and then she would proceed to walk back again, once more shadowed by Erik for protection.

Within a half hour, Christine was washing her face with water she'd poured into a basin when she heard a soft rustling behind her.

"I'm sorry if it smells of smoke," Erik said gently, placing a black gown on the bed. "It was the only thing I could find in the whole Opera House that was undamaged, appropriate for mourning, and seemed as though it would fit you."

Christine glanced at the rather hideous black wrapper on the bed and realized it would seem odd of her to show up at a bank in a style of dress almost always reserved exclusively for wear in the home. She had no idea to whom the dress had belonged before the fire; perhaps it had been a costume. Nonetheless, Christine nodded her thanks. Erik looked as though he wanted to say something, rocking uncomfortably to and fro on his heels, his hands clasped in front of him.

"What's wrong?" Christine asked him.

"Will - uh..." Erik cleared his throat and let out a short little breath. "Will you need assistance with your corset?" he asked.

Of course, Christine thought with an internal groan. The damned corset. It would be obvious if she weren't wearing one in public, so it was imperative she put the one she'd been wearing last night back on. The wrapper dress she could manage herself, but, yes, she would need Erik to lace her into the undergarment. She cursed herself for leaving the house in a corset designed deliberately to make a woman helpless. There were corsets manufactured nowadays with hook and eye busks so that a woman might undress herself. Christine's high-fashion corsets were shaped such that even with the busk, she still required someone else to loosen the stays in the back, and certainly someone else to lace her up to achieve the requisite tightness needed for society's standards.

Christine had already put on her now-dry (and mercifully opaque) chemise and drawers, and she slipped on the stockings and boots that Erik had brought and placed on the floor beside the bed. She would not be able to lean down properly to put them on once she was corseted. Erik stood, helpless and clearly uncomfortable, all the while beside the swan bed, which now seemed an ostentatious and presumptuous decoration given the distance between them.

She slipped the loosened corset over her head and adjusted it around her bust, clearing her throat to urge Erik to step up behind her. She heard his heels scrape on the stone floor as he shuffled forward, and then she felt his fingers tug a bit at the stays.

"How tightly..." he began, his voice trailing off into the silence broken only by Christine's breath.

"Quite tightly indeed," she answered uneasily, reaching for the brass feathers at the foot of the bed for support. "You will not hurt me. I promise. Pull as hard as you can."

She felt him hesitate, felt the strings actually loosen for a split second as he seemed to consider whether or not he should be yanking on Christine's undergarments. But then there was a series of three rough tugs, each pulling her in more tightly than the last, and with each one Erik grunted quietly as if they were making love.

Christine felt her cheeks flush at the thought of that, of Erik behind her grunting and exerting himself in such a way, and she gulped. She felt him tying the stays and turned around slowly when he'd finished, seeing the fire in his eyes when she did. Something had changed in him in the last few moments, she realized. In the act of tugging forcefully on Christine's corset, some force in him had been awakened, and it frightened Christine a bit to hear his rickety breath and see him chew upon his bottom lip anxiously. He did not look entirely in control of himself, and indeed she felt his hands drift to her waist not a moment after she turned round and met his eyes with hers.

She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the thick material of her corset, could feel the weight of his hands on her hips as they gripped her. She was abruptly returned to the first time he'd touched her here, when he'd worn black leather gloves and let his hands drift around her body while she'd been confused and seduced by the strange newness of her Angel and his lair.

But she was no longer the naive, innocent child she had been, and she knew now what such touches meant. She covered his hands with hers and felt his shaking fiercely, as though he were frightened of his own potential. Christine gently guided his hands from her waist, trying desperately not to make him feel rejected, and brought them to her lips as he had done with her hand the night before.

"I should continue to get dressed if I am to get to the bank soon," she said in a cracked whisper, and Erik nodded slowly, taking a step back from her. "Thank you for your help," Christine said after him as he turned and hurried from the space. He gave no response.

* * *

**Ostinato**

* * *

Christine emerged from the bank and glanced around to see where Erik stood waiting around the corner of the building. She shoved the carpetbag into Erik's waiting hands and hurried out of the shadows furtively, acting as though she'd never disappeared from the sidewalk.

Then she walked in measured, paced steps back toward the opera house, telling herself to breathe calmly, that Erik had the money and was watching her and that she was perfectly safe.

But then, behind her, she heard a scuffle, and she looked to see two men tumbling in the darkness she had just left.

"Erik...!"

She panicked, darting back to where she'd just given Erik the money. Clearly, someone had been waiting for them, or had followed them, and had seen her give the money to Erik. Now the attacker had pounced on Erik and appeared to have him pinned to the ground. As Christine fought the urge to scream and alert all of Paris to the presence of the Phantom of the Opera in the shadow of the bank, she saw the glint of metal in the darkness.

"No!" she gasped, realizing that the attacker had pulled a knife and was hovering it above Erik. She dashed forward, impulsively rushing toward the demon who was somehow overpowering her Angel. She snatched at the man's arm and wrenched it away from Erik, just missing the swing of his blade as he redirected his wrath toward her.

Indeed, when the man saw that Christine was close to him, he seemed to give up on Erik entirely and turned toward her with a seething look of hate in his glassy, drunken eyes. His hair was mangled and matted; his clothes were ragged and torn. His eyes flicked toward the carpetbag that lay torn and spilling banknotes beside Erik's staggering form, as if realizing for the first time that it contained money. So this was not a robbery, then.

The man seemed to waver for a split second between killing Christine and stealing the money, reconsidering his mission for an infinitesimal instant. It was his hesitation that led to his swift death, for Erik rushed to his feet and was against the man's back in a flash. Christine took a large step backward, clapping her hands to her mouth in horror as one of Erik's hands seized the man's wrist and squeezed so hard that the knife clattered to the cobblestones. Then Erik's hands were around the man's head, and with a gruesome, sickening crunch they twisted swiftly and broke the assassin's neck. Christine gasped and squealed as the man slumped to the ground, lifeless and staring, and Erik lifted his hands in the air as if to absolve himself of what he had just done.

Christine stared at Erik with panic-stricken, terrified eyes.

"Thank God you are safe," Erik murmured, crouching to rifle through the man's pockets. Christine realized he was not looting the corpse, but rather searching for clues about his identity and purpose.

"How did you..." Christine began, not knowing what exactly to ask. Erik's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

"He saw you emerge from the shadows and he was on you like a cat. A look of recognition came over his face, and he pulled something from his pocket..." Erik extracted a photograph from the assassin's jacket pocket and held it up to show Christine. It was an image of Christine in her Hannibal costume, a portrait that had been taken the night of her debut performance. On the back were scrawled the words 'Christine Daaé.' Christine gasped again, horrified that the assassin had so obviously been sent to kill her. She struggled to positively identify the handwriting on the back of the photograph, but could not.

"I jumped him from behind, but somehow he turned and pinned me to the ground," Erik continued, tucking the photograph into his own pocket. "Thankfully, you pulled on his arm at precisely the right moment."

Christine stared at the corpse of her intended assassin, lying on the pavement, and glanced furtively around to see if anyone was watching or listening. "What do we do now?" she whispered.

Erik rose to his feet and brushed his gloved hands together. "We proceed back to safety. We leave him here for his sender to find. Let his death serve as a message that you are not so easily snuffed as that."

Christine felt a sudden surge of terror course through her veins, knowing that someone was searching for her, actively trying to kill her. She felt her skin go cold and her lips go numb as she was paralyzed with fear, and she only half-noticed as she was dragged by Erik further into the shadows and along a circuitous route back toward the opera house. Her mind was fuzzy and dizzy with shock, her stomach churning with panic. She felt abruptly nauseated, and she clutched onto Erik's free arm, the one that was not cradling the damaged carpetbag of cash, for support.

Soon enough they were back in the bowels of the opera house, and Christine held the carpetbag on her lap as she stared lifelessly ahead while seated in the gondola. Erik punted the boat wordlessly, the only sound in the cavern being the gentle swish of the water as his pole rose and fell and as the boat surged slowly ahead.

Christine felt silent tears coursing down her cheeks, and she did nothing to catch or prevent them. Her Raoul was dead, dead and gone forever, and now someone was trying to kill her, too. She glanced over her shoulder but from that angle could see only Erik's mask, not his exposed skin. She realized that this deeply flawed man, who seemed to trust her so little now and was dangerous in so many capacities, was her only hope of survival. She swallowed thickly and with difficulty, and clenched her million francs more tightly.

When she was seated at the little table on the lake shore a half hour later, still staring wordlessly ahead, Erik brought her a Venetian glass goblet of water. Christine stared at it, silently admiring the vibrant colors of blown glass swirling through the bowl, stem, and foot. She touched the rim of the glass to her mouth and felt instant relief as her cracked lips were moistened.

"Thank you," she murmured to Erik, and he nodded simply as he drummed his fingers on the table, towering over the seated Christine as if he were still expected to behave protectively.

"Do you have strong reason to believe that it was the Comte de Chagny who sent the assassin?" Erik asked pointedly.

Christine looked up into his pale eyes, seeing only a need for revenge in them. She felt her eyes prickle again as she said dully, "You are asking me for permission to kill him."

"I am not asking permission." Erik shook his head. "I do not need your permission. I am asking whether he is the right man or not."

Christine considered her response carefully, knowing that her answer would determine whether or not her brother-in-law met a certain and unpleasant death. She shut her eyes for a moment and searched her mind for some sort of proof that Raoul's brother was involved in any way in the day's events. Of course, it made perfect sense that he would be. He was her enemy, the member of the de Chagny clan who loathed her more than all the rest of them combined. Surely he would hardly be upset if she were dead. Probably he would smile grimly and think that some twisted justice had been wrought in punishing her. But, still, she had no proof. Not even the way he had eyed her at Raoul's funeral, with nothing but hate in his cold and critical eyes, was enough to condemn him to a brutal death at Erik's hands.

So she looked at Erik and shook her head slowly. "I have no evidence," she admitted, "nothing concrete linking him to what happened today. I have nothing but bitter suspicion and personal distaste."

"That is enough for me," Erik announced, turning away from the table and clasping his hands behind his back as though his mind was made up. "It would be far better to eliminate the potential threat he poses than risk letting the guilty man remain free and alive."

"No, Erik… you killed for me today out of pure self-defense… but anticipatory and precautionary murder is still murder. Please, I beg you, do nothing until we have a stronger reason to believe -"

Erik whirled and glared at Christine. "And when will I know that?" he demanded. "When the next attempt on your life succeeds? When I fail at my duty of protecting you? When will I know, Christine?"

She rose very slowly from her chair and raised her palm to his good cheek. She laced her other hand through his fingers and, even through his leather glove, could feel him shaking with anger and distress. She leaned up onto the balls of her feet and touched her lips to his, for the briefest of moments, and she whispered into his ear,

"Please do not commit murder without substantiation. You will know when we have proof. And you will never fail me."

* * *

"How long has it been since you have seen the ladies Giry?"

Christine glanced up from the book she was reading, jarred out of her suspended disbelief by Erik's question. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.

Erik put down the quill he was using to scratch out notes on musical paper and asked again, "Have you seen Madame Giry or her daughter Marguerite in the years since the… since we all parted company?"

Christine swung her legs off of the swan bed and leaned heavily on her hands, eagerly and curiously tipping her head as she frowned at Erik. "No," she said. "I've not seen Meg or the Madame in over two years. It saddens me. We were very close."

Christine had been down in Erik's chambers for very nearly a week now without seeing sunlight, as he was being particularly cautious in the wake of her attempted assassination. She had spent most of her time reading, organizing and cleaning Erik's messy and dilapidated surroundings, and cataloging his music. Erik let her do what she wanted while he composed and played the organ; anything to keep her busy and stave off depression.

Astonishingly, the two had not made physical contact since she had brushed her lips against his the day of the attack. Perhaps they were both afraid of what would happen if skin touched skin again. Christine herself spent most nights crying herself to sleep, still distraught over Raoul's death. Erik, for his part, seemed hesitant to comment on the sobbing he heard or on the man who had left Christine a widow. Christine was sure there was much Erik wanted to say about Raoul, none of it very suitable, but he knew better because his words would wound Christine. So, Erik did not speak ill of the dead, and Christine did not complain of her grief aloud. That uneasy truce kept a distance between them over the course of the week, though Christine would often glance over toward Erik in a quiet moment and catch him staring at her.

"Why do you ask me about Meg and Madame Giry?" Christine inquired curiously, shutting her book and rising off the bed to stalk curiously toward Erik's organ. She stopped a few feet from the bench, and she saw him flick his eyes up and down her form. She hugged the crushed velvet robe she wore more tightly around her form, hoping to conceal her flesh. Erik licked his lips self-consciously and looked deliberately away. He exhaled and said gently,

"It is they who bring me supplies most of the time. I give them money, and in exchange they provide me with food and anything else I ask them to provide. That way I very rarely have to leave this place."

Christine's eyes went wide. "So you have seen them – are they well?"

"Very," Erik answered with a nod. "They will be here in approximately one hour with groceries and new clothing for you."

Now it was as if Christine's eyes were about to bug out of her head, and she balked, "Why didn't you tell me they were coming?"

"I've just told you," Erik answered, shaking his head confusedly.

"An hour's warning?" Christine blurted loudly. Then, realizing she was being ungrateful about the new clothes he'd obtained for her, and that she was ignoring the joy she should feel at seeing her oldest and dearest companions, she shut her eyes and breathed deeply. "I'm sorry. That was impetuous of me."

For the first time in a week, she felt Erik touch her as he brushed his fingers against hers. She only now realized they were desperately clutching the side of the organ as she steadied herself against the shock of the news. Christine slowly retracted her hand, and she saw the flash of rejection cross Erik's eyes as she did, so she cooed gently,

"Thank you for getting me clothes."

"The dresses are black," Erik pronounced deliberately, "out of respect for your husband." He coursed his hand over the spot on the organ's wood where Christine's palm had been, and stared at the ivory keys.

Christine gulped, feeling her heart sink, and nodded. She tried to utter her thanks, but though she mouthed the word, no sound escaped her throat.

"In the meantime, let us get you presentable," Erik suggested. "You want to look like a proper vicomtess when you see your friend, don't you?" He smiled up at her, but in his caustic smirk Christine saw only envy, and in her own heart she felt nothing but remorse and pity. She followed Erik to where she could dress, steeling herself for the arrival of the two women she'd not seen since she was no one but Christine Daaé.

* * *

** Con Moto**

* * *

"My God... Christine!"

"Meg!"

The two young women dashed for one another, with Meg clamoring out of the gondola and splashing through the water with her skirts hiked up to her knees. Christine met her on the shore, arms outstretched, and the girls embraced warmly. Christine smiled at Meg when she pulled back, though her smile was filled with the sadness of a grieving widow and that was plain for Meg to see.

"Christine," she said kindly, holding Christine by the shoulders, "I was so filled with sorrow to hear about Raoul. I... I am just so very sorry."

Christine collapsed suddenly onto Meg's shoulder, shaking with tears at Meg's mention of her dead husband by name. Behind Meg, Christine saw Erik helping Madame Giry from the boat, and he began hauling the supplies the women had brought onto the shore.

"Hello, Christine," said Madame Giry, nodding in a way that conveyed her sympathy over Christine's widowhood. "I am very happy to see you again after all this time. I wish it were happier circumstances."

Ten minutes later, they were all seated around the little table by the lake, and Erik was pouring a bottle of wine they'd brought into some of his blown glass goblets.

"A toast," he proposed when they all had their wine, and the three women raised their glasses expectantly. Erik looked from Meg and Madame Giry straight back into Christine's eyes as he said softly, "to friendships rekindled. And to those who are gone from us."

They all touched glasses very gently, drinking to Erik's words, and after they'd all had a sip, Christine spoke.

"Meg," she began, "what are you doing now? Where are you dancing?"

Meg looked embarrassed. She glanced to her mother, who gave her a minuscule nod, and then back to Christine. "Maman and I run a small boarding house now," she admitted, going red-faced. "On the side, I am an assistant in a milliner's shop."

Christine felt her lips part in shock. She realized that just a week earlier she had thought nothing of taking a million francs from her bank account and thought abruptly that there was much she could do to help the Giry women. But she did not wish to offend them with offers of charity or by flaunting the wealth she had had over the past two years, so she simply swallowed hard and said softly, "It is a true pity that a dancer as elegant as you, Meg, is not on the stage."

"And a pity that you've not graced a stage, either, in years, Christine," Meg countered, with the slightest hint of defensiveness. "Though, of course, it would be inappropriate for the wife of a nobleman to be a professional performer."

Christine admitted that this was true; she, too, had surrendered her personal passion for Raoul. Now that she had been known to Parisian society as the Vicomtess de Chagny, there was no hope of her ever returning to the stage, either. At least Meg had the option available to her. Christine nodded knowingly at Meg.

The conversation continued for a while with a measurable degree of awkwardness and halting pauses between comments. The girls had less in common now than they once had. Christine's experiences over the past two years had been a sort of ascent, while Meg had descended into poverty and obscurity. Rehashing the days since their parting, then, was unpleasant and uncomfortable for everyone at the table, and Erik was particularly unhelpful by simply sitting silently in his chair and taking the occasional sip of wine as he listened absently to the conversation.

The bottle of wine was gone soon enough, and Erik began to push himself off the arms of his chair to go fetch another.

Meg, who was seated to his right, placed her hand gently on top of his and looked up at him with an expression that suddenly jolted and shocked Christine.

"Don't," Meg said soothingly, urging Erik to sit back down. "I'll get it." She smiled at him with a bright, childish grin and patted his hand lovingly. She rose and walked over to where the wine rested in an iron rack, and she uncorked a bottle. She brought it back to the table where Christine wordlessly stared ahead in shock and then watched with some degree of horrified fascination as Meg poured Erik's glass first, pausing to ask him if it was enough before pulling the bottle away.

Why on Earth was she doting over him in this mincing and juvenile fashion? Why hadn't Christine noticed earlier in the meeting the way that, when Erik made a rare comment, Meg giggled bashfully and nodded and patted his hand? Why was Meg fluttering her blonde eyelashes at him and sitting with a posture that jutted out her bosom? Why wasn't Madame Giry doing anything to stop her Jezebel of a daughter from flirting with the Opera Ghost? And, most disturbingly of all, why was all of this filling Christine with a boiling, bitter jealous rage?

Within ten minutes of noticing the spectacle, Christine was so seething with anger that she was thoroughly distracted from the conversation.

"Christine?"

She snapped toward Madame Giry, who had spoken, tearing her gaze from where Meg was adjusting Erik's cravat while he eyed her awkwardly.

"I'm sorry?" Christine frowned apologetically. "I was distracted... by - by my grief." She hated to use Raoul as an excuse, but she was so disturbed by Meg's behavior that she stumbled over her own words clumsily.

Madame Giry flicked her eyes toward her daughter and smiled sympathetically at Christine. Meg did not seem to notice.

"I only asked, my dear, if there is anything else you need while you are seeking solace here," Madame Giry said. "Anything I might get for you when next we bring Erik his necessities."

"Oh, that's very kind of you." Christine tried desperately to smile, but out of her peripheral vision she saw Meg Giry flick her silky blonde hair over her shoulder, and she was suddenly filled with loathing for the girl who had once been her closest friend. Fed up with it all, Christine cleared her throat at last and asked rather loudly, "Erik, do you suppose I might have Madame Giry bring me some more books?"

She gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles went white while she waited for Erik to answer her. He looked briskly away from Meg as if the blonde girl had simply vanished, and he gave Christine a warm smile. He nodded. "Anything you need. Anything you want," he assured her. "I want you to be happy, Christine."

There, Christine thought malevolently, shoving the meanest and most wicked thoughts she'd ever devised in Meg's direction. There. See how he loves me.

As Erik punted the gondola away from the shore, with Meg and Madame Giry inside, Christine realized how frighteningly possessive of Erik she had become during the visit. She was just as bad as him, she thought ruefully. She could not tolerate another woman's flirtatiousness with him, because it quite literally made her sick to her stomach with jealousy. But why?

And what right did she have to be possessive of him, anyway? They were hardly man and wife. Christine did have a husband, one that she was supposed to be mourning, and it was not Erik. Yet, at the sight of Meg flaunting herself and flirting with exertion, Christine had seethed with what felt like hatred. The bile of envy had made her throat sting, and she had wanted to shriek at Meg to stop acting like a harlot around Erik. Her Erik. Her Angel of Music.

Confused and angry, Christine stalked to the swan bed and collapsed onto the mattress, lying face down with her face buried in a feather pillow. She screamed as loudly as she could into the pillow, again and again until her voice was hoarse and ruined. The feathers and fabric muffled her cries so that they did not echo. As Christine pounded the mattress with her fists and wailed and screeched, she began to exhaust herself. Finally, she pulled her face away from the pillow and gasped for breath, growling quietly to herself as she seethed.

"Why are you screaming into a pillow?"

Erik stood a few feet from the bed, adjusting the buttons on his tailored waistcoat, watching Christine curiously.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Christine spat angrily, scowling at him. "I simply would have preferred to be informed that you and Meg Giry are so close now."

Erik narrowed his eyes at her and looked thoroughly confused. "Meg...?" He shook his head. "I see her rarely. Mostly it is Madame Giry who brings the supplies, and she generally simply loads them into the gondola and leaves."

"Then why," Christine demanded, as though she had any right to do so, "was Meg Giry hanging off of you as though you were her lover? Why was she smiling at you, fawning over you, touching you?"

Erik said nothing. He simply blinked. "Does it upset you if others touch me?" he asked pensively.

Christine shuddered as she realized that, indeed, it did trouble her. Very much. "I can't watch her... caress you... fixing your tie, putting her hand on yours, on your shoulder. She is too familiar."

"Perhaps you are not familiar enough," Erik countered smoothly, "for, if this sort of thing upsets you, why did you not simply plant a kiss on my cheek and make it clear that she must obey boundaries?"

"Because... because that would be akin to declaring us lovers!" Christine exclaimed, realizing instantly that she'd likely wounded his pride deeply. Indeed, Erik licked his lips patiently and nodded slowly.

"We would not want her thinking that," he agreed in a tight voice, and Christine could see the dark sadness in his eyes. He drummed his fingers against the little wooden table that held his wind-up monkey, staring at the oddity. "Do you know, Christine, that I would very gladly tell Meg never to touch me again because it upsets you. I would tell her to never come back here, that I wish to never lay eyes upon her again, because it upsets you. I would tell her that I belong to you and you to me and that she has no business intruding upon that."

Christine stared at him, doe-eyed and enraptured, as he turned his angular face to face her. He smiled very sadly and regretfully.

"I would gladly tell her that, but it isn't true, is it? I don't belong to you any more than you belong to me. You still belong to Raoul, don't you, Christine? Even though he is gone."

Christine looked hurt now, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows. "You must allow me to grieve," she insisted. "I can not move on until -"

"He wanted me to take care of you, Christine. I can make you happy, if only you will let me love you." Erik interrupted her and took a step closer to the bed. His dark eyes glistened with emotion as he whispered in a barely audible voice, "Please, please let me love you."

Christine was suddenly overcome with a want - a need - to kiss him, and she shoved herself up to a seated position. Sensing her urgency, Erik sat quickly upon the mattress.

"You do not want her? Meg?" Christine demanded, staring at Erik's lips and imagining her tongue venturing between them. She felt a heat growing in her body that she absently tried to fight, knowing it was wrong despite its pleasantness.

"You are the only one I have ever wanted, Christine, and you are the only one that will ever bring me happiness. Please let me love you."

With his fervently whispered words, Christine's self-control was gone, and a mixture of desperate grief, jealous insecurity, and lustful aching drew her toward him. She scooted closer to where he sat, and he turned to face her more completely. In his dark chestnut eyes, Christine saw a deep-rooted and intense longing that smoldered as he held her gaze. She tried to look away, but could not tear her eyes from his. In that instant, she inexplicably forgot all the sadness she'd been shouldering for the past weeks, and her breath quickened in her nose.

Erik's flickering chocolate eyes finally wrenched themselves from Christine's, and coursed down her décolletage to observe the fluttering at her throat where her accelerated heartbeat pounded. He delicately reached up and touched his fingertips to her pulse, and she could feel his skin against hers in the exact place where her blood was beginning to simmer. Christine shut her eyes and tipped her head back, breathing in deeply and absorbing his sandalwood aroma. She felt the warm presence of his lips on her neck, pressing gently on the pulse where his fingertips had been. Her breath hitched as she gasped in surprise, and her body unwillingly tensed itself to his forward act. Squeezing her eyes more tightly shut, Christine willed herself to relax, to submit to her Angel for just these few moments, that she might convince him of her emotions... that she might be free from her grief long enough to remember what it meant to feel happiness.

Spurred on by Christine's body going slack, Erik snaked his arms around her to support her torso and to pull her closer to him. He drew her neck up to his face and kissed her more deeply there, opening his mouth and sweeping his rough tongue along the delicate flesh. Christine shivered violently and, to her chagrin, a low moan escaped her lips. She felt her cheeks redden, from arousal and from embarrassment that she was moaning like a common whore.

"Please kiss me back," Erik said unexpectedly, his voice warm and breathy against Christine's goosebumped neck. His words were spoken in a low, but pleading, tone, and when he pulled his face away from her neck, Christine felt her eyes flutter open quite of their own accord.

Her lips were on his before she knew what was happening, and she inhaled sharply at the feel of his tongue pressing against her lips. Without her mind's permission, her mouth opened and granted Erik entry, warmly welcoming him and engaging his tongue in a clumsy dance with her own. Christine felt his hands coursing desperately across her back as though he was clinging onto life itself by holding her. His fingertips left a trail of scorching, aroused flesh under the taffeta of her dress, longing to feel him against her skin.

After quite a long kiss indeed, Christine finally pulled away when she was in urgent need of air. She panted frantically, her mouth still a fraction of an inch from Erik's, her breath mingling with his as they recovered from the searing kiss. As Christine stared into the pools of his dilated pupils, Erik brought his hands from her back to her face, brushing the pads of his thumbs under her chestnut eyes.

His lips trembled as he leaned in to kiss her again, and though Christine expected another fiery exchange, he tipped her head down and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. He pulled back and looked into Christine's confused gaze, and he said in a quivering whisper,

"I will take things no farther while your heart is not fully mine."

"I am yours, Erik," Christine promised, her voice cracking. In a way, it was true. She truly felt more for him after the ardent and blistering kiss than she had ever imagined she could feel. And, yet, in the midst of it all, there was a ghostly image of Raoul's face in the back of her mind. Her grief could be forgotten for a moment, perhaps, but he was right. When they put their clothes back on, Erik would care only for Christine and she would be thrust back into her heartache over Raoul's death. She could not torture him in such a way; she could not let him become an object of comfort instead of the source and subject of her love.

Erik shook his head very gently at Christine, and she did not protest again. Wordlessly, he helped her shuck her gown and corset and he neither said nor did anything to provoke her into amorous action again. When she was in her nightgown, wrapping herself in her crushed velvet robe, Erik cleared his throat from across the room. Christine raised her face, looking at him with sad, wide eyes.

She closed the gap between them and embraced him, feeling the hardness of his lean body beneath her hands. She felt him kiss the top of her head and felt his fingers burrow in her curls, and she heard him murmur, in the most gentle tone he'd ever used with her,

"I love no one but you, Christine. Certainly not Meg Giry. I love no one but you, and you I love so completely that it destroys me. Please, all I ask is that you let me love you. When you are ready, you may love me in return. I do not demand it. I would welcome it, but all I ask is that you allow me to love you."

Christine realized that that was what she had done to him two years ago, when she had broken his heart the night of the fire. She had taken away his ability to actively love her, instead of obsessing over an idea.

"You do not have to wait," Christine mumbled into his chest, and though her voice was soft, she knew that he heard her. "It may take time for memories and grief to fade, Erik. But you must know this: I already love you."

She pulled away from him, slinking her arms from his grasp and lying back down on the bed.

"Please do not scream into any more pillows tonight," Erik requested as he turned to go. "You will ruin your perfect voice."

* * *

**Presto**

* * *

He had tasted spicy, like licorice and cinnamon, when he had kissed her that evening.

The heat in that kiss had gone straight to her groin and stayed there. Even as she lay alone on her back now, hours later in the darkness, she could feel his warm touch everywhere. It was on her skin, her lips. It spread throughout her abdomen, as though the flames of his passion were licking at her flesh from every direction.

Christine had been reliving the kiss all night, unable to sleep for her distracted and racing mind. She brushed her fingertips across her neck and remembered how he'd touched and kissed her there, how his breath had been rickety with desire. Where else could he touch her? Where else could he press his lips to make her lose control of her voice and emit a wanton moan the way she had done?

As Christine restlessly pondered the thought, she startled. There was a shuffling sound a few yards away, quiet and slow. Christine peered through the dim candlelight that remained in the chamber and saw Erik, shirtless and without his mask, walking slowly toward his organ bench. Christine narrowed her eyes in confusion at several observations. First of all, he carried a bottle of wine in his hand, which he clutched in a manner that indicated some degree of drunkenness. Second, he seemed to be wandering rather aimlessly, as though he were upset.

"Erik?" Christine said gently into the dark stillness of the chamber, her voice just loud enough to reach his ears. His ruined face snapped toward her and he stared blankly for a moment, before shuffling across the stone floor toward the swan bed.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, his voice rough from the drink. Christine was troubled. She was not accustomed to seeing him drunk, nor to hearing such harshness in his voice. She decided to answer his question honestly.

"I can not sleep. I can not stop thinking of you," she admitted, though the scoff she got from Erik was not the response she expected to her words.

"Do not do this to me, Christine," he begged her, his voice desperate and breathy. "It is the middle of the night. You are scarcely clothed and you are lying in a bed. I have had, perhaps, too much wine. Don't you see the danger?"

He did not sound entirely drunk, but rather as though he'd been attempting to dull some sort of emotion with what had turned out to be a bit of an indulgence. Christine pursed her lips and pulled the blanket down a bit, revealing the linen of her nightgown.

"You do not need to seduce me, Christine," Erik said with a wry smile. "I was seduced long ago. Come and sing for me, if you can not sleep."

"You know very well I screamed my voice into oblivion earlier tonight," Christine told him, furrowing her brow.

"Sing softly, then," Erik suggested. "It has been too long since I have heard you sing."

There was tenderness, then, in his words, and in his glistening eyes. Christine gulped heavily. It was true, she'd not sung for him since their reunification. She rose skeptically from the bed and reached for her velvet robe, but Erik caught her arm. Christine looked up into his eyes, startled, and he shook his head slowly.

She bit her lip and took his hand, lacing her little fingers through his. He began to walk back to the organ bench, although Christine thought perhaps he was not going to play very much. Indeed, he sat and turned to look expectantly at Christine.

"Sing for me," he commanded lushly, and Christine licked her lips. She was not sure what he wanted to hear. A resounding aria? Probably not. She cleared her throat amd said gently,

"May I have a G5, please?"

Erik obligingly pressed the key she'd requested on the organ, and Christine began to sing a lullaby she had sung as a child, when her father had accompanied her on his violin.

"Sleep, my love; the winter's breath blows strong and cold, but here am I / To comfort you until you slumber, to send your dreams into the sky."

Her words were trembling and hesitant at first, but she quickly gained her confidence when she saw the look of near orgasmic bliss on Erik's face in reaction to the sound of her voice.

"Still, my love; the snow grows deeper and lakes are frozen but home is warm / And I shall shelter you now and always from every tempest, from every storm."

The melody was lilting and soothing, like the rhythm of a cradle rocking a colicky infant. The notes scaled up and down in a predictable but pleasant manner that made the song a favorite in the little town where Christine's father had been born.

As Christine continued to sing, Erik's hands drifted to her waist, and he burrowed the good side of his face slowly into her nightgown. Where she stood, her abdomen was even with his face, and she felt his hot breath on her belly through the thin material of her gown even as she tried to keep her composure and sing. The bottle of wine sat forgotten and abandoned on the organ bench behind Erik. His fingertips dug insistently into her flesh the more she sang.

Soon Christine found herself lost in the same heat she'd been remembering earlier, the one that threatened to take her whole body prisoner and make her subject to his every whim.

Christine faltered for a moment as she forgot the words to the song briefly, interrupting her rhythm, and she saw Erik's lean back muscles twitch when she did. She continued singing, knowing what it was doing to him, but she felt her body pressing itself tightly against him. Her hands clutched his face to her abdomen; her skin prickled in response to his clutching fingers that were now working their way up her torso.

Soon enough his fingertips drifted to her breasts, and Christine once again felt her breath hitch as she returned to the first verse of the song and repeated the lyrics. Her nipples went firm at the first hint of his touch, and his trembling thumb drifted over the hard nubs through the material of her nightgown.

Christine's mind whirled. What was she doing? This was going to spiral out of control very quickly. They did not have the barriers of formal daytime clothing between them to make sexual contact more difficult. And, if anything, she was egging him on by singing for him - the thing she had done that, over the course of the years, had made him fall in love with her.

Now so breathless that she could scarcely sing at all, Christine panted out the shaking lyrics of the lullaby and at last reached out to touch Erik. She reached for his bare back, grasping the knotted muscles of his shoulders for support. She shuddered when he began to knead her breasts gently, pressing his palms around the soft, round sides and and compressing his fingers carefully. His movements were slow, deliberate, and yet Christine could tell he was scarcely in control of himself; she could tell that well from the way his warm breath quickened and shook through the fabric on her stomach.

Christine finished the second verse again and paused, whispering, "Erik..."

"Sing," he said simply, his voice a low groan muffled by her nightgown.

Christine struggled for breath, her entire body alight with desire in response to Erik's ministrations at her chest. There was a warm moistness between her thighs that was blossoming quickly, and Christine felt more aroused than she ever remembered being. She raked her fingertips up his toned back, careful not to scratch his scarred tissue with her nails, and she felt him tense beneath her touch as if it were too much.

"Sing," he said again, this time the word a plea released in a cracked whisper. Christine took a trembling breath and continued,

"Rest, my love, for you are weary and I, your shelter, will hold you near / Whispering stories to give you visions that spirit you far away from here."

During the verse, Erik had risen shakily to his feet, prompting Christine to take a step back. His hands slowly worked their way back down to rest upon her waist, and her own hands stroked at his cheeks as though they were both perfect. She hesitated in singing when she met his eyes, because the very sight of the piercing aquamarine was enough to make her knees buckle slightly. Erik held her waist fast and pulled her body flush against his, as if to make a point, as he stared at her. Christine felt the hardened bulge of his erection through his trousers, the pressure of it on her abdomen where his face had been.

Never before in any of their moments together had Erik deliberately made Christine aware of arousal between his thighs. Now, his hands migrated to her back and he very slowly ground against her as she desperately tried to keep singing. At the feel of his hips rocking back and forth, of his hardness, her voice faltered weakly, and her words trailed off into the air.

Erik's hand suddenly reached up and ensnared itself in the curls at the back of her head, his other hand holding her by the small of her back tightly against his hips. Then, realizing that the song was over, that Christine could sing no more, he crushed her mouth with a kiss.

His lips and tongue were moving frenetically, searching for some sort of relief from his arousal. Christine helplessly squealed into his mouth, and that triggered a low rumble from his own throat - one that reverberated through the kiss and made Christine's mouth vibrate pleasantly.

Before she could think through the consequences of her actions, Christine was yanking on her nightgown to rid herself of it. She parted from the kiss just long enough to whip the garment off and toss it onto the floor a few feet away. Oblivious to the immediate and dramatic effect her nudity had on Erik, Christine moved to kiss him again and was surprised when he caught her and held her at an arm's distance.

Even as he spoke his shaking words, his eyes were studying her body carefully, taking in every inch, every morsel hungrily. "Be careful what you do," he said, sounding thoroughly uncontrolled. "The Point of No Return is not a myth."

Christine breathed deeply and shivered in the cool air of the cavern, her goosebumped skin prickling. "I should think we've passed it already," she responded, unable to help herself from reaching to brush her fingertips through the sparse hair upon Erik's slightly sculpted chest.

He panted then, almost as if he were desperate to get in a solid breath, and surprised Christine by shaking his head no. She quickly realized he was trying to convince himself not to act, not to carry out his desires. His face, particularly the ruined side, looked so conflicted and hesitant that Christine worried he might cry. So she gently moved his hands from her shoulders, edging one up and the other down. He obligingly began to stroke her dancer's form, sweeping his palm down the subtle curve of her waist and hip.

"My heart is yours," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "Take my body with my love and guard them both carefully." She saw in his aquamarine gaze the acceptance and relief wash over him like a wave.

"I would have you properly. Tenderly, and in the bed." Erik's eyes flicked behind her to the swan bed. Christine laced her fingers through his and walked briskly toward the bed, thinking along the way that perhaps she was making a mistake. Her stomach fluttered with the thought, the notion that she was somehow committing a betrayal by acting upon lust.

But it was not lust, she reminded herself. It was love, and such love was entitled to a physical component. To deny Erik any longer, with her heart or her flesh, would be to pretend several untruths were reality. The truth was that she had always loved Erik. The truth was that Raoul was gone.

They reached the swan bed and Christine turned to Erik, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heart racing, pounding frantically, and she put her hand over it soothingly. She brushed her lips over the delicate skin there, and then took a small step back. She waited, staring into his eyes, waiting for him to act.

He did not break their gaze as his fingers moved to his waist. Christine saw out of her peripheral vision that he unbuttoned his trousers and inched them down, then stopped. Christine was confused by his pause as he leaned forward to burrow his nose into her curly chestnut hair.

"Please," he begged her, his hands reaching for hers and guiding them to the waistband of the trousers. Christine glanced down to watch what she was doing, feeling the weight of his head atop hers where they stood.

She yanked gently on the trousers, pulling them down until Erik's erect manhood sprang forth. Christine tentatively reached for him, wrapping her hand slowly around his shaft, and he shuddered so violently in response that she worried for him. A guttural gasp escaped his lips as he moved his mouth to hers in order to envelop her in a kiss. His hips rocked forward slightly, pushing his member into Christine's hand, and he groaned desperately into her mouth.

His own hand drifted to the downy patch between her thighs and she felt the pads of his fingers make contact with her folds. In the instant that he felt her wet readiness, her soft entrance, he groaned again, much more insistently.

Christine could hardly keep herself from moaning in response. His hot skin was hard and throbbing in her hand, thick and long and...

"Perfect," she whispered aloud as their lips parted for air. Erik urged Christine onto the bed, so she moved to slowly lay down on her back and felt her curls fan out around her head like a halo upon the pillow.

Erik shucked his trousers entirely, discarding them somewhere in the shadows, and sank onto the soft mattress. He moved to perch himself atop Christine, leaning on his arms with an elbow on either side of her head. Christine could feel the heat of his cock radiating from his skin, and as his hardness was now dangerously near her entrance, she felt a flood of wet desire rush from her abdomen.

Erik pushed Christine's legs wider apart with his knee, moving slowly and deliberately. He moved with what seemed like experience, though Christine suspected he was operating on pure instinct at this point. She spread herself wide enough to grant him entrance, and when she could no longer stand the pierce of his aquamarine eyes, she shut her own.

"Look at me," Erik said, and he was not asking politely as his voice hissed in the darkness, dripping with husky excitement. Christine obeyed, her lids fluttering open to meet his gaze in the precise moment that she felt the tip of his cock touch her sopping entrance.

She gasped, overcome with want, and reached between them to guide him into her. He pushed in then, and Christine felt him fill her. Her tender walls stretched to accommodate his girth and length, and her back arched in response to the sudden feel of fullness. She clutched at his biceps, crying his name into the chilled air as if with a single word she could beg him to move more quickly and firmly.

He responded to her unspoken supplication, to the feel of her body welcoming him so warmly. His hips thrust, clumsily and randomly at first but then settling into a smooth, rocking rhythm. Each time his hips touched hers again and she was filled with him, Christine let out a tiny, gasping moan. Soon she was panting, her little "uhh, uhh, uhh" vocalization making Erik move with more urgency and intensity.

The pleasure in her groin was so immense that it hardly took any time at all before she was clenching around him. She made a loud pained noise in her climax, and at the sound of her wail and the feel of her contractions, Erik stopped moving. He seemed to realize that she was peaking, and he watched her with a steely stare as her body went slack.

The stimulus of Christine's orgasm seemed to push Erik off of some sort of ledge, and he quickly thrust a few more times before shuddering above her and groaning as he came.

While his face was still twisted in what looked like a mixture of pain and pleasure, Christine realized he had just finished inside of her, and she was abruptly filled with the fear of bearing him a child. She reassured herself that she was due to bleed in two days' time, and therefore she was likely not fertile in this moment. She reminded herself that she had tried for two years to conceive to no avail. Surely she would not be punished for Erik's passionate release.

Sensing that Christine was distracted, Erik moved off of her and lay gasping on the bed beside her, staring at the ceiling.

"You already have regrets," he guessed, and though Christine shook her head no, she felt her eyes prickle with tears.

"All that matters is that I love you very much," she told him firmly, her words directed as much to herself as to him.

She had not been able to sleep earlier, troubled by arousal and thoughts of Erik. Now, even as the real man himself lay beside her, she felt herself drifting off to sleep, exhausted mentally and physically. She had no idea what time it was. It did not matter. It was time to sleep.

As she curled up on her side and shut her eyes, she felt Erik drag the heavy blankets over her and sensed him lying beside her. Even as she slept, she knew he was there, and he did not leave her all the night through.

* * *

**Grave**

* * *

"Erik, I have to get out of here."

Christine was pacing anxiously behind Erik, who sat upon his organ bench. He turned over his shoulder and stared at her, alarmed.

"Why?" he asked simply.

"I have not breathed fresh air nor seen daylight in two weeks. You are accustomed to this isolation. I am not." She shook her head fervently and paced again, her black raw silk skirts dragging along the stone floor. Meg and Madame Giry were due in twenty minutes with supplies, and it had occurred to Christine that she might somehow manage to see the outside world when they visited.

"We shall see, Christine." Erik turned back to his sheet music. "There are dangers worse than isolation out there."

"I am a rat in a cage!" Christine exclaimed. "A prisoner."

She heard Erik inhale sharply, and he brushed his fingers across the ivory organ keys as he said, "I am not forcing you to stay. I love you and I wish to keep you safe."

From somewhere far away, Christine heard Meg call out, "Erik? I am over here." Her voice was distant and small, but it echoed in the stone chamber nonetheless.

Erik rose quickly from the organ bench and straightened his mask on his face. Christine felt a fresh surge of jealousy as he wordlessly readied the gondola to go fetch the women. As he punted the boat away and used the pole to operate the crank that opened the portcullis, Christine reflected thoughtfully upon that which had transpired since the last time Meg and Madame Giry had been in this place.

The time she had given herself to Erik had been his first time making love, and though he had spoken highly of the experience, they had not engaged in the activity again since. It was not for lack of want or ability; the opportunity had presented itself innumerable times over the course of the past week and in Christine's mind there had been little reason to refuse instinct. However, Erik had argued that perhaps they had acted a bit rashly, perhaps it was best to savor the memory of what had come to pass between them - but better to wait until there was no doubt whatsoever before acting in such a way again. Christine had no doubts, but she did not question him.

Besides, the act itself would have been unpleasant if not impossible due to her month's bleeding. She did indeed bleed two days after making love to Erik, and admitted to herself that she felt deep relief. For the past two years, the constant presence of her menses had meant failure, that there was no child when a child was so sorely wanted. Now, though, a child would only serve to complicate matters thoroughly.

She had sung for him every day, mostly with him accompanying her enthusiastically on the organ. She had watched him play, feeling her heart swell as his hands moved deftly across the keys. They had had many discussions, about opera but also literature, and she had found Erik to be delightfully intelligent and well-read and inquisitive, but also stubborn and opinionated.

The close quarters had not driven her to resentment as she had feared. She, rather, had a nasty case of separation anxiety when it came to Erik. Whenever he left her for any reason, no matter how briefly, she felt anxious and incomplete.

Now, as Christine watched the boat emerge from the mist, she felt whole again. But then her heart sank, for she saw that it was only Meg in the gondola with him; that Madame Giry was not in the boat.

She swallowed hard and tried to smile pleasantly as she helped to tie the boat up and unload supplies. Meg had brought food and wine, and paper, quills and ink. Christine held a dozen or so quills bunched in one hand and cradled a parcel of food in the other, and as she moved quickly to put the supplies away she tried to control the feeling of distrust she now had toward Meg.

"Christine," said Meg softly from behind her, after clamoring unassisted from the boat, "all of Paris is stricken with worry about you. There are rumors, vicious rumors... and you've been in all of the papers."

As Christine turned wide-eyed to face Meg, the blonde girl thrust a newspaper page into Christine's hands. Erik appeared at Christine's side and read the headline aloud over her shoulder.

"'WIFE OF DEAD VICOMTE MISSING FOR WEEKS.' Well, at least they've noticed she's gone," he noted with disdain in his voice. There was an accompanying artist's rendering with the article, one that had been modeled off of a photograph taken the day of Christine's wedding to Raoul. She wondered who had provided it to the newspaper. She felt a pang of grief as she looked upon the picture, staring with burning eyes at Raoul's black-and-white face as Erik continued reading the article.

"_The Dowager Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny (née Daeé) was the wife of the recently deceased Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. The young woman has been missing since the day after her husband's funeral, say servants in the couple's household._

'_She simply vanished!' one young maid exclaimed to this reporter. 'She was here, then she was not, and we've heard no news nor seen her since that day. Nothing was taken from the house, by her or by anybody else.'_

_The curious disappearance of Lady de Chagny has left in its wake a complicated situation for the de Chagny family. Because the Vicomte de Chagny left no male issue, his title passes to no one in his family. However, his last will and testament explicitly stated that in the case of his death, his lands and monies were to be passed to his wife. In the case of both their deaths, his brother the Comte and then any issue of the Comte would receive the inheritance._

_Interestingly, an inquiry with the Banque de France and the Paris Police confirmed a rumor that one million francs had been withdrawn from the Vicomte's account before the Dowager Vicomtesse's disappearance was publicized. Because it would be difficult for Lady de Chagny to successfully hide with all of Paris searching for her, though, it is believed she was forced to make the withdrawal by a captor. An unidentified corpse was found just outside the Banque de France the same day the withdrawal was made. The man's neck had been snapped. Police are determining whether the two incidents are connected._

_This complex web has led to much suspicion in Parisian society landing squarely upon the living brother, Philippe, Comte de Chagny. The Comte de Chagny has vociferously denied any involvement in the disappearance of the Dowager Vicomtesse. To the contrary, he has financed a massive search effort to scour the city and outlying areas for evidence of the missing woman._

_If the Dowager Vicomtesse is not found within another two weeks, she will be declared legally deceased, according to the Prefect of the Paris Police. If that occurs, the Comte de Chagny will be legally entitled to the inheritance left behind by his brother. However, the Prefect did not rule out the possibility of an investigation of the Comte. Because of the delicate nature of such a situation involving nobility, the Prefect seemed hesitant to discuss whether or not the elder de Chagny is an official suspect in the disappearance._

_In the meantime, Parisian tongues wag furiously, with all sorts of rumors and false sightings abounding. This newspaper can confirm with all certainty that, according to the Police, the Dowager Vicomtesse is still missing and believed dead."_

Christine found herself shaking violently by the time the article was finished. She had many reasons to be afraid. First of all, the article gave her no definitive proof that Philippe was involved in the attempt on her life, but confirmed in her mind that she had good reason to suspect him. More alarmingly, though, the article demonstrated to her that unless the threat on her life was eliminated, she could _never_ leave this place beneath the opera house.

"Meg," she heard Erik say, his voice sounding distant to Christine's preoccupied mind, "Where is your mother today?"

Christine snapped to attention at that, for she herself was very interested in the answer. Looking concerned, Meg bit her bottom lip.

"She is terrified that the police will somehow find us, knowing that we are from Christine's past. She is selling the boarding house and we are moving into a garret room in the twelfth arrondissement. She has gotten employment at a dressmaker's and I at a different milliner's, under the name Babette Marceau. We are trying to protect Christine, and ourselves, and you, Erik. We do not want them to find you."

"This would all be much easier if Philippe were simply eliminated from the equation," Erik growled angrily.

The last time he had suggested it, Christine had insisted that he show restraint, but this time she said nothing to protest. She felt horribly guilty that Meg and her mother had had their lives upended by the drama, and that people she'd known thought something horrible had happened to her.

After Meg left, Christine cried for hours, out of sheer frustration and because she was frightened. Around ten o'clock, Erik announced that he would return shortly, and Christine did not ask where he was going. She knew perfectly well where he was going. He was going to kill Philippe.

For the first time in her life, Christine felt no compunction whatsoever about the prospect of murder. She would be relieved after Erik finished off the brother-in-law who had been anything but family. Never in her life had she wished death on a person, but she honestly believed this man to be a villain.

Her heart and stomach fluttered with nervousness while Erik was gone, and Christine paced around the spaces available to her, imagining all the horrible things that might be happening to Philippe at that moment in vivid detail. Her vicious confidence began to waver, and she felt sick to her stomach. Still, it was for the best, she insisted to herself as she sat on Erik's organ bench and punched out a few random notes on the instrument.

Beside her, she heard the portcullis wrench open and clatter as it rose, and she saw Erik approaching. Her heart pounded with anticipation. She saw no blood upon him, and he did not look mussed at all. There had been no struggle, then, and he'd done it cleanly. Christine sighed with some relief at that, though she knew that such details were insignificant when the end game was still death.

When the boat was near shore, Erik leapt out and waded to shore as quickly as he could, too impatient to ground the gondola. Christine saw in his eyes a look of distress and concern. Suddenly, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach, and she realized something was wrong.

"Christine," he said in a fervent, low voice when he reached her, seizing her by the shoulders, "Thank God you are all right. I was terrified…"

"What? Why? What happened?" Christine felt her veins go cold with fear.

"He was already dead."

Christine took a moment to process Erik's works, shaking her head with closed eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked shakily. "Did he… kill himself?"

Perhaps that would have been an ideal situation, she told herself, if he had died by his own hand somehow. But Erik shook his head no. His voice trembled as he recounted what had happened.

"I entered his home through a window, but it was strangely silent inside. In the hallway, I passed a maid lying dead on the ground. She had been shot in the temple, probably with some sort of revolver or pistol, though not at close enough range for it to be a suicide. I've no idea how many other bodies were in the house; I did not search the entire residence. I cautiously entered Philippe's bedchamber and saw him lying dead on the floor, as well. I checked to make sure he was truly dead. He, too, had been shot."

"Perhaps it was Philippe, then, who killed himself. A murder-suicide." Christine felt her lips blanche in horror. Again, Erik shook his head.

"No, Christine… he'd been shot in the back. He was murdered by someone else."

* * *

**Maestoso**

* * *

The next several days were anything but relaxing as Christine and Erik struggled to investigate Philippe's murder from the depths of the opera house.

Christine felt no relief in his death, for it meant that perhaps he had not been the one attempting to kill her. Perhaps there was someone else out for both of them – but who? It was extraordinarily frustrating for Christine to be trapped where she was, unable to leave for her own safety, and unable to do anything more to find the truth.

There had been no word from Meg since her last visit. Though Christine was still baffled by Meg's behavior on the day her mother had been present, she worried for her old friend. Now that it was clear that the person behind Philippe's murder might be the same who plotted for Christine to die, Christine could not help but wonder if there was any danger posed to Meg. She couldn't think of a distinct reason why there would be aside from guilt by association, but that uncertainty only made her more anxious.

Then there was the issue of Raoul. Before he had died, Raoul had warned Christine to find Erik in order to stay safe. He gave no details, mentioned no names, but it had seemed as though he knew perfectly well that something would be amiss after his death. Christine could not even stomach the speculation that Raoul had somehow been involved in all of this before her death. It was such a far-fetched accusation that she completely disregarded the thought. Nonetheless, the fact that he had warned her to get to safety was disconcerting. Whatever he had known, he had taken to his grave.

Through some nighttime sneaking about, Erik had been able to discern the place and time of Philippe's funeral. He'd also brought back a newspaper that sensationalized the scandal, highlighting the fact that Paris was in a downright tizzy about the mystery of Christine's disappearance and Philippe's death. Erik had decided that he would attend Philippe's funeral in order to gather information, and though Christine had expressed sincere concern for his safety, Erik had reminded her that he'd spent many years watching from the shadows without being caught.

The day before the funeral, Christine was trying to take her mind off of the frightening situation by reading, but the material she'd chosen only served to depress her. _Notre-Dame de Paris_ by Victor Hugo, the story of the doomed and reclusive Hunchback, bore too many similarities to her own life. As Erik's organ music reverberated through the chamber, she tossed the book aside with far more force than was necessary, and perhaps more than she had intended.

The sound of the heavy leather book slamming against the stone floor startled Erik, and he stopped playing to turn and face Christine. He glanced at the book and saw the title, etched in gold letters on the dark green cover, and he said nothing. Quietly and slowly, he turned back to his organ but did not resume playing. There was a long silence, a charged stillness in the space, before he spoke. When he did, his words were cold as ice.

"You are horrified by that book because the tale of its monster reminds you of my own sorry life, does it not?"

Christine was not certain how to answer his accusatory question. She could not lie and say there were not parallels between the two men, but neither could she agree to his categorization of his own story. "Your life is not 'sorry,'" she said finally, with a little sniff.

"Come here." Erik stared at the organ keys, his hands on his knees, but his command to Christine was not a request. He spoke the words sharply, as a command.

Hesitant and wary, Christine rose from her chair and walked slowly to where he sat on the bench. She stood beside him, and she could see pain in his eyes.

"Where did you get that book?" he demanded.

"Meg brought it," Christine said, her voice a quivering whisper. "I'm sorry."

Erik nodded slowly and drifted his fingertips along the surface of the organ. "You can not imagine what it is to be hated by all the world. By everyone," he told her, still not looking at her.

Christine gulped. "I do not hate you," she insisted. She tentatively reached out to stroke Erik's good cheek with her knuckles. "I love you."

"You did hate me, though, once. You told me my soul was deformed."

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She could not defend herself against that accusation. She had even told him that she hated him, and she had believed it. That same night she had kissed him, but it had only been in order to free Raoul.

Erik seemed to be remembering that night, as well, and he suddenly looked at Christine with anger burning in his eyes. He wore his mask right now; Christine did not know why. He rarely wore it when it was only the two of them around. He knew that his face did not horrify her. Not anymore.

His expression was more difficult to read properly with the mask on, and Christine was alarmed when he flew to his feet and wordlessly seized her by the waist. He yanked her closer to him, and she stumbled because he pulled so hard. Her black silk skirts rustled as he squeezed her between himself and the organ, spreading his knees to bring her between them.

"Do you hate me still, Christine?" he demanded in a growl. "Why are you here? Just so I can protect you? Because you have nowhere else to go. Is that it? Nowhere in Paris is safe for you, so you hide here out of necessity. You said yourself you would leave if you could."

Christine felt her eyes burn with tears as she struggled to think clearly. He was terrifying her now, with his anger. "But I would come back!" she said desperately. "I'm here because I love you!"

"That is not why you came here," Erik reminded her. "You came here for protection. You came because the boy told you to come, and you would do anything he said."

Christine felt the tears tumble over her eyelids, but when she went to wipe them away, Erik snatched her wrist roughly.

"You shed tears now… for what, exactly? For him, isn't it?"

"No, it's… you're frightening me!" she exclaimed.

"So you do not hate me; you only fear me." Erik scoffed and grinned sardonically. "Hardly the love you profess so that you have a safe place to sleep."

"You're frightening me in this moment because you are being rough and angry with me, and I do not know why." Christine snatched her wrist back from him, regaining some of her confidence. She would not be a shrinking violet for him to verbally abuse. "Because you are offended by a book? Do not think you are permitted to take out your frustrations on me, Erik. I am not your -"

He cut her off, seizing her head and wrenching her down against his mouth. He kissed her, pushing his tongue against her lips, and Christine squealed furiously. But he was patient, persistently coursing his tongue against her closed mouth, and then his fingers were massaging her scalp. Melting against her will, Christine felt her lips part and let him in. Though it was a very one-sided kiss, she felt her body suddenly aflame with want, and she was angry with herself for feeling lust when she was supposed to be cross with him.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was climbing onto the bench, straddling his lap, and his arms were snaking around her torso. She hiked her thick skirts up around her waist so that the only fabric between them was the thin cotton of her drawers and the material of his trousers.

It would have been easy for her to unbutton them and pull him out, then pull aside the crotch of her drawers and ride him like this. But she was terrified he would finish inside of her again, and she couldn't bring herself in this moment to explain to him that she did not want his child.

Not now, anyway.

So, instead, Christine began rocking her hips against the hard lump that she felt between his thighs, grinding hard against his erection. As she kissed him and swayed rhythmically on his lap, she pulled off the mask gently and put it on the bench beside them. When she did, Erik moaned and moved his mouth to her neck, sucking and licking so fiercely there that Christine tipped her head back and cried out his name.

He seemed to want more friction than she was able to provide on her own, so his hands moved to her waist and he drew her down and against him, more firmly against his erection. He followed her cadenced rocking with his hands on her hips, and he groaned against her neck. Christine was getting so much stimulation from the rubbing that she shocked herself by falling off the cliff. She felt her muscles clench and her ears ring, and her whole body felt flushed and ecstatic as she came. The moment was intensified by Erik's attentions to her neck, but after she came down from the high, she was so sensitive that she gently pulled his face away and resumed kissing his mouth. His lips were swollen and red, and he was panting so frantically that Christine worried he would lose consciousness.

She rocked as hard as she could against him, ignoring the twinge of pain she felt on her hypersensitive nether regions from such forceful movement in the wake of her own pleasure. Soon Erik was shuddering and quaking in his own moment of gratification, and he released a low, vibrating moan into Christine's mouth.

As they caught their breath and recovered, there was a strange awkwardness between them, for Christine remembered that they had been arguing before all this had happened, that he had cut off her admonishment with a kiss. She slowly climbed from his lap and stood beside him, crossing her arms over her chest and watching as Erik self-consciously put a hand over the dark, wet patch on the front of his trousers.

"I do not wish for you to read books that emphasize the pain endured by those with deformities," Erik said tightly, using his free hand to put his mask back on. He sounded and looked uncomfortable.

Christine's anger had dissipated in the long minutes since they had fought, and so she simply nodded before turning and slowly walking away. If reading such books made him unhappy, she would not do it. That seemed a simple enough resolution to the argument, though of course there had been much more complex issues addressed which would now go unresolved.

She heard Erik's voice behind her say gently, "I love you, Christine." Then he began playing rather loudly upon the organ, before Christine had a chance to answer him.

* * *

**Scherzando**

* * *

"I love you, Christine," he had said. The words echoed in her mind as she spent yet another sleepless night unable to rid her head of him.

He had said it many times before to her, but it had never carried so much weight as when he'd said it now... after having his pride wounded, after fighting and accusing and allowing the inflamed senses to yield to passion. Even now, Christine could feel the hardness beneath her again, could see the icy burn in his glistening dark eyes, could feel his hands clutching her to him as if he were terrified to let her go. After all that, and realizing they ought not be angry with each other after all, he had told her he loved her.

It was as if it were a reassurance this time. He knew he'd been harsh with her. He knew he'd chastised her and accused her to the point of tears. And most of all, he knew that she cared deeply for him and that he was breaking her heart by treating her so. Christine could tell he knew, because when he'd spoken of his love, his voice had been so different than when he'd been yelling. He spoke the words like a prayer.

Morning came before Christine had a wink of sleep, and by the time Erik arose, she had already put on a wrapper dress without a corset and was eating some bread and cheese at the little table. She heard his shuffling footsteps and saw him emerge from the place where he kept a simple little bed, which was chastely positioned as far as possible from Christine's sleeping space. He had sleep in his eyes and still wore no shirt, so Christine thought to herself, amused, that he might as well put his bed wherever he wanted if he were going to stumble out so unkempt.

"Good morning," she said as lightly as she could manage, though her nerves were completely shot from the lack of sleep and from knowing that Erik would leave today and go to Philippe's funeral.

Erik wordlessly walked over to the table, waking up a bit along the way, and leaned down to plant a soft kiss upon Christine's forehead when he reached her. Christine shut her eyes at the feel of his lips, for they were comforting to her anxious state.

"Please," she managed to say, "sit with me and have some breakfast before you go."

"I haven't the time," Erik said remorsefully, "though of course I should think I would much prefer my time spent with you than anywhere else. I must dress quickly and go. I have overslept." He turned to walk back to where he kept his clothes in a beautiful mahogany wardrobe that had been too heavy for the looters to carry from the place when they'd ravaged it two years ago.

Christine rose, abandoning her food, and she followed Erik to his wardrobe. He looked over his shoulder at her with a curious glance, for he had never dressed in front of her and she leaned on the wall rather casually as though she intended on watching him. He hesitated for a moment before opening the wardrobe, but when she gave him a weak little smile, he more confidently opened the doors and pulled out the various pieces of clothing he needed.

Christine watched as he arranged the items just so on his little bed, and then closed the doors of the wardrobe more slowly than she expected him to do. He himself had said he was in a rush, but he vaguely seemed as though he wanted to put on a bit of a show for her.

She grinned to herself as he walked to his washbasin and spread shaving cream on the good half of his face with a large brush. He efficiently shaved that half of his face with a Sheffield steel straight razor, gliding it expertly over his skin and leaving behind a smooth, hairless surface. As he rinsed his face with water from the basin, he looked in the mirror above him and saw Christine in the reflection, and the corners of his lips curled up a bit.

He returned to his bedside and paused with his fingers on the buttons of the tight trousers in which he slept. He gave Christine a wicked little look and said, "Your presence is slowing me down a bit, I'm afraid."

"Shall I go?" Christine asked, her voice a bit husky from watching him move around the space without a shirt, so that she could see every taut muscle in his back, chest, and arms. "You're quite right, I ought not -"

But Erik had already walked quickly to where she stood and had taken her wrists gently in his hands and guided them to the buttons. Then he took her face in his hands and began kissing her lips with languorous, lazy movements. Christine unbuttoned the trousers quickly, and even as she did she felt him grow beneath her fingers.

"I shall simply have to walk more briskly than I intended to do," Erik told her, his breath hot on her lips. "Though you've now created something of a problem for me." Christine's hands were still at the fly of his trousers, and his burgeoning erection was more obvious by the second.

She knew how she could help him eliminate that problem in an expeditious fashion that bore no risk of pregnancy. She wordlessly sank to the stone floor, kneeling on her skirts for padding, her eyes not leaving Erik's as her fingers moved to pull him free.

But he looked at her with concern, furrowing his brow and reaching down to cup her cheek in his large hand.

"Please don't do that," he begged her. "Please stand up."

Abruptly baffled, Christine looked at Erik with wide, confused eyes, but she obeyed and stood slowly again. She felt him softening a bit in her hand even as she did, and she wondered what had happened so quickly to his playfulness, to his wicked smile and his forward kisses. Her hand fell from him and she quickly brushed her skirts and looked away, embarrassed that he had rejected her for a reason she did not know.

Erik did not speak as he turned away from her and took off the trousers. He left his drawers on and moved quickly to put on the formal black trousers he had pulled from the wardrobe. He faced away from her as he buttoned them, and finally Christine could take the silence no longer.

"I promise you would have enjoyed it, Erik," she said, still very confused by him rebuking her. "I was only trying to please you."

He continued dressing as he spoke, putting on his stiff white shirt and bow tie and his black waistcoat. "My entire life before I was rescued was spent trying to please others, Christine. I was desperate for their approval so that they would stop being so cruel to me. I was forced into servitude for years, and to see you kneel upon a stone floor so that I might..."

His voice trailed off and he sounded very sad indeed, as though the memory of his past had come shooting back to his mind in seeing Christine being so servile. She suddenly understood, though of course she had been more than willing to use her mouth on him. She felt abruptly very guilty for upsetting him again, just as she had yesterday with the book. Perhaps he was still over-sensitized about his past, having had the memories shoved in his face the previous day. Nonetheless, Christine did not insist to him that it would have been fully consensual. She just nodded and gulped.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking.

Erik did not look at her as he slipped his morning coat over his shoulders and reached for his mask and hat.

"Lovers ought to please each other," he conceded, "but it should be mutual. Acts of slavery glamorized by consent are not appealing to me."

She just nodded again, unable to speak as he brushed past her to quickly head to the gondola.

"You will be back. Promise me you will be back," Christine beseeched him with fear in her voice as she imagined all the horrible things that could happen to Erik while he was above ground in Paris. He sensed her great unease and reached for a little vial on a shelf as he proceeded to the lake. He turned and handed it to Christine.

"Drink this," he told her, "and when you wake, I will be here."

"What is it?" Christine asked worriedly, staring at the clear liquid in the little glass vial with a distinct lack of confidence.

"A tincture to help you sleep," Erik told her, "so that you do not go mad with worry as it seems you are about to do."

Christine frowned but uncorked the little bottle, and Erik watched her tip it into her mouth. It tasted awful, with a strong herbal and alcoholic flavor, but she swallowed it nonetheless. Erik was very lucky she trusted him so deeply, she thought, or she'd have never imbibed the tincture.

As he punted the boat through the portcullis a few minutes later, Christine began to feel the effects of whatever he'd given her coming on strongly. She felt abruptly nauseated and tired, and she staggered to the swan bed, desperately grasping onto the bronze shell of it for support. She unwrapped her dress and climbed in her drawers and chemise into the bed. Before she could ponder that it felt much more as though she were dying than as though she were falling asleep, Christine felt her eyes shut and all the world was gone to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Messa di Voce**

* * *

Christine could hear scuffling footsteps, and the sound of things being rearranged or perhaps put away. She willed her eyes to open, and eventually they did, feeling heavy as lead. She pushed herself up onto her elbows with some difficulty, for her muscles felt weak and shook with the effort.

"Erik?"

Christine certainly hoped that it was him out there making those little noises, but she was distantly frightened by the notion that perhaps it wasn't him; perhaps it was someone else.

So Christine was very surprised when Meg Giry came into view, holding a jar of honey in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

"Oh, thank goodness you're finally up," she said with a gush of relief. "I got here a half hour ago but couldn't rouse you. I was terrified you were dead, but you were breathing and then I saw the little vial there..."

Meg gestured to the small table beside the swan bed where Christine had managed to out the empty glass vial before crashing onto the blankets.

"Where's Erik?" Christine asked confusedly. "He said he would be here when I woke."

Meg looked just as clueless as Christine felt. "I've no idea where he is," she said. "I arrived with the supplies and called out, but no one answered. The boat was on the far side of the lake, so I poled it over here and was putting away everything. I thought maybe he'd gone somewhere..."

"He's gone to Philippe's funeral to father information," Christine clarified. "But, what time is it?"

"Nearly seven in the evening," Meg answered, and Christine sat upright, alarmed.

"Then he should have been back hours ago!" she exclaimed. "I have to go look for him!"

Meg shook her head insistently and sat on the edge of the bed. "You know it is not safe for you to be up there," Meg reminded her. "I'm sure he's perfectly fine. Perhaps he went to see my mother at the same time I came here, or perhaps he's following some some clue. You needn't worry after a man like Erik. He can take care of himself."

Christine eyed Meg oddly then, for she had said those final words with a strange, distant glow in her blue eyes.

"Meg, are you in love with Erik?" Christine blurted, and Meg looked at her with a horrified and offended stare. She put her hand over her chest and shook her head solemnly.

"Why would you even suggest that, Christine?" she demanded.

"You did nothing but flirt with him when you were here with your mother, and now you speak so fondly of him."

Meg soberly nodded. "Yes, I was rather humiliated for you to see me groveling in such a way when Maman was here."

"Groveling?" Christine repeated, cocking an eyebrow. "You were hanging off of him, Meg."

Suddenly Meg's eyes filled with tears and she looked completely embarrassed. "You don't understand," she insisted. "My mother and I are desperately poor now. Maman had hoped that if I could get Erik to fall in love with me, that he would support us financially. I told her that day that I did not want to behave that way in front of you, that it would only make you sad and angry and that any hope of winning Erik over was gone now that you're here. Maman was insistent. She said that Erik owes her this, after all she's done for him, and in exchange he could have me. But he doesn't want me, Christine. He wants you, and that's very obvious."

Christine felt her stomach sink. So that was the reason behind Meg's inexplicable behavior. Well, Christine could understand what it meant to be poor and frightened of not having the next meal. Her father had left her in poverty, and it was only the fact that the ballet dormitory accepted her that she had dinner in her belly consistently. Nonetheless, for Madame Giry to assume that Erik now owed her money, and that an acceptable trade was her daughter's body, only served to make Christine very angry.

"Ladies," said a low voice, and Christine startled as she glanced up to see Erik standing ten feet away, eyeing them cautiously and nodding in salutation. Meg's cheeks went red as tomatoes as she realized that he'd probably heard her explain everything to Christine.

Christine herself was relieved, honestly, that Erik had heard it from Meg. That way, Christine wouldn't come across as the jealous and possessive lover when she tried to explain it to him.

Meg looked at Christine with desperation in her eyes, and Christine gulped. "E-Erik..." she stammered, and then it occurred to her that Meg had taken the boat over, so she asked, "How did you get here?"

"There are far more ways to get in and out of here than by boat," Erik said smoothly, absently running his gloved hand over the polished wood of Christine's wardrobe. "Some of them I like to keep to myself."

Meg Giry stood quickly from Christine's bed and, beet-faced, mumbled, "I will send Maman in a week with more food."

She walked so briskly past Erik that when he reached out to stop her, it looked forceful. Meg gasped, turning to look at Christine with worried eyes as Erik held her by the shoulder.

Erik let her go, removing his hand as though he'd touched burning flame, but he said, "You're due for payment." He extracted a billfold from his jacket pocket and pulled out several crisp banknotes.

"This is too much," Meg said softly, her cheeks still red with embarrassment. She stared at the rather considerable amount of money Erik had given her.

"I think that is precisely the right amount," Christine sighed, scratching her head and looking awkwardly away from both Meg and Erik. Meg pursed her lips and mumbled her thanks, clearly still humiliated.

She turned slowly over her shoulder, and her worn, flat shoes scuffed on the stone floor as she walked slowly away.

"How much do you normally give her, and how much did you give her today?" Christine asked Erik when Meg was gone. They sat at the small table, eating honey on bread and drinking wine. Erik sighed through his nose.

"Normally, I give them a hundred francs a week for necessities, sometimes more if I need something in particular. I gave her five hundred today. I hope you do not mind."

Christine swallowed the bite of bread that she had in her mouth and thought back to what Meg had told her... that Madame Giry was willing to force Meg into flirtation or worse for money. At least this way, Meg didn't have to act in a way that made her, Christine, and Erik uncomfortable. Christine did not like the idea of charity if it sacrificed Meg's dignity, but neither could she stand to know Meg had the choice between starving and trying to win Erik.

"Of course I do not mind," Christine said softly. She sighed and addressed the elephant in the room. "Did you... what happened at the funeral?"

"Ah, yes." Erik wiped honey from his lips with a napkin and cleared his throat. He looked into Christine's eyes and, as she so often did when he looked at her, she melted a bit. The pale aquamarine of his gaze was so piercing, so captivating, that Christine had to focus hard on what it was that he was saying. "The funeral Mass was held in Sainte-Chapelle. Most of Parisian society was present, and from places unseen I heard their rumors and whispers."

"And what did they say?" Christine asked in a hushed voice, leaning forward on the table.

Erik calmly took a sip of wine. "What struck me most was the person they were discussing, who happened to be present in the chapel."

Christine narrowed her eyes and thought hard. Who would provoke whispers and rumors among the nobility at Philippe's funeral, and actually be there? Christine's eyes went wide with realization. "La Sorelli?" she breathed. Erik nodded. "I did not realize Philippe was still seeing her. I am even more surprised that she would show her face at the funeral."

La Sorelli, the former lead ballerina of the Opéra Populaire, had been Philippe's paramour, but the Comte had patently refused to marry a woman as lowly as La Sorelli. That was his basis for his condemnation of Raoul's courting of Christine: that he may play around with the riffraff, but he certainly wasn't going to attempt to bring them into his noble family. Christine and La Sorelli had been anything but friends in the past - the ballerina was embittered by Christine's marriage into the de Chagny family - but Christine did not view the seemingly dim-witted former dancer as a real danger.

"What were they saying about her?" Christine asked, pressing her fingers to her lips.

"They say that while the Comte's title and properties will pass to a cousin, that in his will he left a very good deal of money to La Sorelli. Likewise, any money left from Raoul that had gone to Philippe would now go to La Sorelli."

Christine's eyes went very wide as she realized that, of all the people whom she had suspected over the past few weeks, La Sorelli had never crossed her mind. She cursed herself for her blindness, her stupidity. Of course. La Sorelli would want Christine out of the way, and then Philippe, in order to get the Comte's money... the money the Comte would never give to La Sorelli through marriage.

"And what do you think of all of this?" Christine asked Erik, now trembling visibly with fear. Erik placed his hand over hers and tried to quell her shaking, his steely eyes meeting hers again.

"I believe she very well may be behind all of this, or at least involved somehow. I suspect that Philippe was out to kill you for Raoul's inheritance, and that once La Sorelli realized she would benefit if you were both dead, she had her lover killed."

Christine furrowed her brow. "If La Sorelli wasn't the one to try to kill me... If it was Philippe, and now he's gone..."

"No, Christine." Erik shook his head. "According to the guests at the funeral, La Sorelli was overheard by a maid telling her friend that it would be far better for you to stay missing, so that she did not have to 'take regrettable actions.'"

Christine's hand shook fiercely beneath Erik's and she began to cry. Her tears were the result of confusion and fear, of unwanted revelation and remaining unknowns. Erik leaned across the little table and kissed Christine's forehead very gently.

"Do not be afraid," he purred into her ear, his thumb stroking the back of Christine's quivering hand. "I am here. I will always be here, and you are safe with me. I will not abide threats to you, nor will I allow any harm to come to you."

"What are you going to do?" Christine's voice was a cracked whisper. Erik did not answer for a long moment, and if Christine was honest with herself, she wasn't entirely sure she was ready for his answer to that question.

* * *

**Misterioso**

* * *

Two days later, Erik ventured above ground again, and he did not tell Christine where he was going.

He left while she was still asleep, and when she woke there was a little note by her bedside in his hand.

_Christine, I shall return soon. Do not be afraid for anything. – Erik_

But of course Christine was terrified, wondering if Erik was up in Paris committing murder on her behalf. She thought with sorrow and regret how long it had been since she had breathed the air of the city, since she had felt sunlight upon her face, since she had felt the breeze stir her curls. She looked around and realized that perhaps she would never leave this place. Perhaps she would never see Paris again. She could not stomach the thought, and the notion of being forever shut up and concealed had her so anxious that she cried as she dressed.

She was able to do up her own corset, for Erik had somehow procured for her a new one that had a proper busk up the front. It was a simple cream cotton coutil, not elaborately decorated, as had been those she'd worn as Raoul's wife. Somehow, it seemed more fitting for a girl like Christine to have a humble, plain corset. She'd always felt rather like she was playing dress-up and make believe as a Vicomtesse.

The dress she now wore was simpler than her presumptuous apparel, as well. It was black wool, with buttons up the front so she could dress herself. All of Christine's 'old' clothes had been styled to deliberately indicate interdependence of the noble woman on her maids and servants in order to clothe her. This basic mourning dress, with only a slight hint of a bustle, seemed more appropriate for a woman who was in hiding.

But it _was_ black, and that was for Raoul, as Christine reminded herself every day. She thought of him now, as she looked at herself in a full-length mirror. It was easier to think of Raoul when Erik was not around. She always felt filthy and sinful thinking of him in Erik's presence – for Raoul's sake.

Raoul had loved Christine, and Christine had loved him back. She knew that very well. However, day by day she grew more confident in her love for Erik. She hoped that, from wherever he was, Raoul wished happiness and love upon her instead of perpetual sadness and grief. She was young. To be widowed at nineteen years of age, without children, it would have been completely irrational for anybody in the world to expect her to mourn Raoul forever. She was not Queen Victoria of England. Eventually, she could be expected to move on and marry again, or at least love again. Eventually, Christine told herself, but perhaps it was still too soon. The guilt ate at her whenever Raoul entered her mind, but it was far worse when Erik's organ music rang from feet away. Here, in the silence and stillness of her solitude, Christine could reflect properly upon Raoul and smile a bit to herself, knowing that she had been loved before and was loved now.

"Christine?"

She hurried out from behind the mirror and nearly crashed straight into Erik as he approached. He reached out to grasp her elbows and keep her from stumbling, and she smiled weakly at him in thanks.

"You've been crying," he observed, touching the swollen red skin beneath her eyes. "Why?"

"It's not important," Christine said hurriedly. "What did you do, Erik? What's going on?"

Erik sighed deeply and led Christine by the elbow back to the bed. They sat upon its edge, and Christine wondered what sort of news she was about to receive.

"I simply went to get more news, more information," Erik told her, though Christine thought that was probably untrue. "I saw this." He extracted a newspaper page from his jacket pocket and handed it to Christine for her to read. She held it with trembling fingers and scanned quickly with her eyes.

'_PRIMA BALLERINA WANTED FOR MURDER. The unfortunate saga of the de Chagny family grows stranger by the day, as now the murdered Comte's paramour, a former ballerina, is being hunted by police. She is wanted for murder, of both the Comte de Chagny and of the missing Vicomtesse de Chagny._

_The woman, known as La Sorelli, was once a prima ballerina at the doomed Opéra Populaire, where chances are she was an acquaintance of the Vicomtesse. Many will recall that, prior to her marriage to the Vicomte, the woman then known as Christine Daaé was a performer with the Opéra Populaire, first as a dancer and then as a singer. It seems very likely that La Sorelli would have been well acquainted with the future Vicomtesse at the time of the infamous and disastrous fire that struck the Opéra._

_The quick succession of deaths and disappearances in the de Chagny family has led many to speculate that there is a struggle for inheritances and fortunes afoot. Early last month, the Vicomte perished of a fever, and then his wife went missing days later. She has not been seen since and has been declared dead. The Comte de Chagny was suspected of involvement in her disappearance, but was found murdered in his home soon after._

_Police grew suspicious of the woman called La Sorelli after realizing that a large sum of money was to be transferred to her according to the deceased Comte's will. La Sorelli was last seen two days ago at the funeral of the Comte, but upon the issue of her arrest warrant, the Paris Police force was unable to locate her. Her whereabouts are unknown. Some Parisian society mouths utter rumors that La Sorelli is the latest victim of the unknown killer seeming to carry on down the line of de Chagny succession. Others say she has vanished to avoid the law, noting that a large sum of money was withdrawn from her bank account before her arrest warrant was issued._

_The parallels between the Vicomtesse and La Sorelli are leading some to suspect the women of a complex assassination plot in order to seize de Chagny wealth. Because the Vicomtesse has already been declared dead, no arrest warrant has been issued for her, but the Prefect of the Paris Police says that, 'If she is alive, she is indeed a suspect.'"_

Christine was appalled. She looked at Erik with horror in her eyes and thrust the newspaper back at him, not wanting to see the words upon it any more.

"I am thought to be a murderer, then?" she balked.

Erik licked his lips and sighed. "It is a complicated matter, Christine. Most everyone believes you are dead, but there are those who think you ran away. Now that La Sorelli has also disappeared after taking de Chagny money, these people are linking you two together."

Christine shook with distress as she realized that now she _certainly_ could never step foot above ground again. For, if she did, she would be wanted for conspiring with La Sorelli to commit murder – or worse. Christine had no way of changing public opinion from the dank bowels of the Opéra Populaire. She had no way of convincing people that she was safe but innocent.

Safe for the moment, anyway, as long as La Sorelli was missing. That was, unless the titters about La Sorelli herself being dead proved true. Perhaps there _was_someone else involved, someone unknown, who was picking off de Chagny heirs one by one until the fortune either reached the killer or was handed over to the state.

For her part, Christine was convinced it was La Sorelli behind all of this. The ballerina was just foolish enough to get herself involved in a mess such as this. Perhaps she found herself in too deeply, Christine thought, and had run away with as much money as she could in order to live out her days a free woman. Where would she have gone, Christine wondered? Across the sea to England?

"What do we do now?" Christine asked Erik nervously.

"Now we find La Sorelli and either bring her to justice or to be buried," Erik said. "And, somehow, the authorities need to find a body they firmly believe to belong to Christine, Dowager Vicomtesse de Chagny."

* * *

**Sostenuto**

* * *

Erik promised not to discuss his scheme with Christine any more until he had firm details that required her attention in place. It was just as well, because Christine's nerves were so wracked every time she thought about her predicament that she usually broke down into tears.

In the middle of one night, she woke from a nightmare in which La Sorelli had found her hiding place and viciously attacked her, and instead of bleeding, Christine's body had poured forth money. Horrified, Christine sat bolt upright and gasped for air. Suddenly, Erik burst into the space, looking very alarmed.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, appearing as though he had run quickly from his own bed. His fists were balled at his sides, like he was prepared for a fight with an intruder. His hair hung wild and untamed from his head and his bare chest heaved with exertion or fear, or perhaps both.

"I… I had a nightmare," Christine said softly, her voice apologetic. She suddenly realized that she must have been screaming in her sleep, and that had roused Erik from his own slumber.

Erik sighed deeply with relief, but his brow was still furrowed with concern. He moved to sit on the edge of Christine's bed, and she found herself edging closer to him as though he would provide radiant comfort. Erik reached for Christine's hand and laced his fingers through hers, then brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently.

"You needn't be afraid," he told her soothingly. "I'm here."

Christine sat up slowly and wrapped her arms around Erik's lean shoulders in an embrace. She could feel her hands still trembling with terror against his back, and tears were still slowly coursing down her cheeks.

"Is this the rest of my life now?" Christine asked absently, burrowing her face between his neck and shoulder. "Living in fear, in shadows, hiding?"

Erik chuckled, his voice a low rumble. Christine looked up into his amused aquamarine eyes, and she was instantly irritated. How was any of this funny?

"My entire adult life has been spent in fear, in shadows, and in hiding," Erik reminded her. "But now that I have you here, it's not so bad after all."

Christine gulped. How could she explain to him that once a person knew freedom, it ought not be taken from them? How could she make him understand how dejectedly frustrated she felt at her inability to breathe fresh air, to talk to people, to feel sunlight again? As it turned out, she didn't need to explain it, because Erik continued,

"I promise you, Christine, someday you will walk up there again. Perhaps not in Paris, perhaps not even France, but you will have your liberty again... someday."

"And you will come with me?" Christine insisted. "You will come wherever I must go, won't you? You won't leave me, will you?"

"Never," Erik vowed, tucking her head back into the crook of his neck as though he were soothing a crying child. "Never."

Christine's lips drifted upward, planting gentle kisses along Erik's neck. Her hand reached up to rest upon his cheek, the scarred one, keeping his face near her. At the sensation of her mouth moving on the sensitive skin of his neck, Erik swallowed heavily and Christine heard his breath quicken.

"I love you," she cooed, her breath hot against his skin.

He did not answer her, but instead pulled her face up to meet his, and he pulled her into a tender kiss, his tongue venturing lazily between her lips and coursing languidly around her mouth.

"Mmm…" Christine hummed against his soft lips, thinking absently that she'd not had enough of him recently… or ever. That first taste of intimacy, when they'd made love with a perfect mix of patience and passion, had spoiled her. Now she found herself wanting him nearly all the time, always daydreaming and fantasizing about when Erik would next take her.

Erik pulled away from the kiss and stared into her eyes with his steely gaze. He brushed his knuckles along her tear-streaked cheek and whispered,

"May I make love to you, Christine?"

It was as if he'd read her mind, as if he'd known how badly she needed and wanted his affections again. So Christine nodded, a little more eagerly than she'd intended, and replied, "Yes, please."

She stood slowly and removed her nightgown inch by inch, revealing her body to him in her own time. He watched her with great interest, though his aquamarine eyes did not bear the blistering lust he'd shown last time. Instead, she saw love, pure and unadulterated love, as he soaked in every part of her body.

Christine did not see the deformities in his face anymore. The scars and malformations on half his face and head were now simply a part of his whole being, and when she looked upon him she found him to be devastatingly handsome despite the misshapen parts of his countenance.

When the nightgown lay crumpled on the stone floor, Christine stalked leisurely back to Erik and stood between his knees, her bare arms slinking around his back again. She relished the feel of warm skin on skin, suddenly feeling a comfort she'd not experienced since she'd come here. She was completely unafraid of him seeing her exposed, of him taking her flesh. When she kissed him again, his hand drifted between her thighs and began stroking her folds gently.

"Ahh," Christine uttered, gasping when his long fingers began sliding along the outside of her wet entrance. Her own hands reached down to unbutton the trousers in which he slept. Erik pulled his fingers from her long enough to slide off the trousers and toss them aside. He was already erect, Christine saw with exhilaration, and he throbbed against her skin when she reached to encircle him with her hand.

Christine could stand it no longer, and as she put a knee on either side of his hips, she was reminded of when she'd ridden him like this with fabric between them. Now there was no barrier, no impediment or obstruction. She sank slowly onto him, guiding him into her slick entrance, and she hissed and moaned as he filled her.

She rocked her body slowly up and down, feeling renewed excitement each time he entered her. Her breasts pressed against his chest as they moved, securely resting against his skin. She felt his hands drift to her waist and follow her wave-like movements. Erik pulled her face back into the crook of his neck, where it had been before, and she could hear his steady, deep breaths and the pounding of his heart. She shut her eyes and focused on the feel of him inside of her, on the sensation of his entire body flush against hers. A low moan escaped her lips, quite unsolicited, as she felt herself slowly climbing a peak.

"I love you," she whispered fervently against his neck, her arms grasping him for support and solace.

"As I love you," Erik replied, his low voice quiet in the still and silent space.

"Erik?" Christine asked tentatively, pulling her face away from his neck to look him in the eyes. She needed him to know that she was not ready for a child, that she wanted time alone with him, but she did not have to speak another word of it. Erik read the concern in her brown eyes carefully, saw the flash of panic there, and he murmured,

"Don't worry. I won't."

She tucked her face against him again, as she neared the pinnacle of her pleasure. Her breath grew rickety against his skin, her arms trembling around him, and she said his name in an ardent undertone, over and over. Erik moved her more firmly against him when he sensed her need rising. Finally, she shook and tightened against him in what was a mellow but enjoyable climax.

Erik slowed her hips and very gently pulled her off of him. Christine climbed off his lap, knowing that he was accommodating her by not finishing inside her. Still, her body ached and yearned for him when they were separated.

She knelt beside Erik on the bed and eased him back so that he lay flat against the mattress, and she began stroking his member. It was slick with her essence, and her hand coursed easily over the sensitive tip. It only took a few stroked before Erik's back arched and he gripped the sheets, his eyes clenched shut against the feel of his climax.

Christine stood slowly and proceeded to her washbasin, and there she wet a little cloth and brought it back to the bed. She gently rubbed clean his stomach where his seed had landed, as Erik looked up at her with veneration in his cerulean gaze.

Christine lay down beside him and snuggled her body against his, still savoring the feeling of his warm skin against hers.

"It's not that I don't want your child," she whispered, suddenly feeling the need to reassure him of that. "It's only that everything is madness right now, and, truly, I simply need _you_."

"I know," Erik said supportively. "As long as you need, Christine, I will not give you a child."

"Perhaps someday…" Christine's words trailed off into the silence, and Erik did not answer her. He simply turned his face toward her and enveloped her into another kiss.

"You should go back to sleep," he said.

"Will you stay here with me?" Christine asked fearfully, filled with dread at the prospect of another nightmare of Raoul, or Philippe, or La Sorelli.

Erik nodded. "I think," he said as he tucked her nude form beneath the sheets, "That perhaps I might sleep with you at night, to make you feel safer."

Christine smiled to herself as she curled against him, knowing that her dreams now would be pleasant and warm. "I think that is a splendid idea," she replied, drifting off to sleep with the feel of Erik's warm body against hers.

* * *

**Verismo**

* * *

Christine awoke to the feeling of Erik's hand stroking her bare back soothingly. She lay still and quiet for a moment, her eyes fluttering open, and wondered how long he'd been touching her. She did not want to move at all, for the warm touch of his hands on her back was so soothing that she never wanted it to stop. Finally, though, she convinced herself to awaken.

She rolled over slowly to face him and met his aquamarine eyes, and the corners of his lips curled up in a little smile. The ruined side of his face was against the pillow, and in this moment he looked like any other man. Christine realized with a flash of surprise that she did not want any other man, and she pushed gently on his shoulders to urge him to turn onto his back. That way she could see all of him, whole and complete in all his imperfection, just the way she loved him. She grinned wickedly at him in the darkness, knowing that it was probably late morning and not caring one bit that they were still in bed.

Erik's hands flew down when Christine rolled him onto his back. Christine furrowed her brow until she realized that he was attempting to conceal the extent of his morning erection. Christine smirked to herself. She wondered how long he'd been awake, and whether his condition was a result of sleep or of touching her naked body.

"It will pass," Erik said awkwardly, noting her reaction to his hardness.

"It's perfectly normal," Christine assured him, and with a pang she thought back to mornings where it had been Raoul beside her instead of Erik.

"I don't need to satisfy it," Erik insisted, his voice tight.

"That does not mean I can't," Christine retorted, reaching below the sheets to stroke him. Erik made a choked little noise and pulled her hands from him.

"I must leave, and I shall be gone a while, I think."

Christine looked up from his body, alarmed at Erik's words. She knew where he was going, of course. He was going to look for La Sorelli.

"How long?" Christine asked, feeling her lips blanche at the prospect of being left completely alone in the dank bowels of the opera house.

"I shall search as long as it takes," Erik told her. "I shall return when I am able."

That answer was not particularly satisfactory to Christine, and she shut her eyes anxiously as she processed the thought of him gone so long. "What makes you think you'll have any easier a time finding her than the police?" she demanded. "They've been looking for her for two weeks, Erik, to no avail. She's likely gone abroad… if she's alive."

"Perhaps they are not looking in the right places," Erik said quietly.

"La Sorelli is a dolt," Christine replied bluntly, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "She would not be able to craft this scheme herself, and even if she were able, she would not stay hidden long in this country with all the gendarmes on her tail."

Erik stared at her, and Christine could not tell his emotions well.

"I agree with you that La Sorelli is almost certainly not acting alone," he conceded. "Likely she ran off with another lover, someone who had connived to get the Comte's money."

"And you shall pursue her to the ends of the Earth?" Christine stipulated. "To England? To Italy? Who knows where she has gone. Erik, if you're to leave this place, you must take me with you. You can not leave me down here by myself for so long."

Erik was silent again. He turned away from her and said softly, "It's too dangerous."

"I would rather die or go to prison than spend months down here in isolation without you," Christine told him, reaching apprehensively for his bare shoulder. "How is that any better than rotting in an official prison, anyway?"

"And if you were to come with me, Christine, and something were to happen to you, how should I live with myself?" Erik's voice was firm, but in it Christine could also sense real fear.

"Why don't we just stay here?" she said suddenly, rashly. "Who cares about La Sorelli? Who cares what the Parisian public thinks of me?"

"You care nothing for Raoul's memory, then," Erik said very quietly, and Christine realized it was the first time Erik had ever referred to Christine's husband by his name. Her mouth dropped open, shocked, and she stammered as she tried to formulate some sort of rebuttal.

"Raoul has nothing to do with this!" she said loudly, now thoroughly irritated with Erik. "This is about Philippe and La Sorelli and… and, I'm here with you now and that's what he wanted, anyway."

It was a poor argument, she knew, and the sad smile in Erik's eyes told her he knew it, too.

"Why was he concerned for your safety before he died?" Erik demanded, presenting Christine with a horribly perplexing thought: that somehow Raoul had known what was going to happen to his brother.

She felt her eyes well with tears. "I do not know. Perhaps he simply thought I would be mistreated in his absence…"

"No." Erik shook his head firmly. "You said yourself that his dying words were to find me. He must have been horribly frightened for you. He must have known something."

"Well, he's not exactly here for us to ask him, is he?" Christine gestured around the space as if demonstrating that Raoul was not present. "You're not some sort of police detective, Erik. You're supposed to create mysteries, not try to solve them."

At that, Erik scoffed and sat up, and he was clearly as cross with Christine as she was with him. He scooted wordlessly from the bed and picked up his trousers, pulling them onto his legs and buttoning them before raising his eyes to Christine.

"Perhaps I can do some more… 'listening,'" he suggested, "In order to discern more proof of La Sorelli's involvement, or of what might have happened to her. That way I'm not leaving you without a concrete plan of what to do next, where to go. I might get word to the Prefect of Police when I know what's happened to her, and hopefully she shall swing on a noose before this is all over."

At that vicious suggestion, Christine shivered hard, an image of an executed La Sorelli flooding her mind. Still, she was glad Erik had conceded a bit to her, that he had shown restraint in not rushing off on a quest around Europe to track down La Sorelli. After all, they didn't know whether she was alive or dead, guilty or innocent. It was just as likely as anything else that she, too, had gone into hiding out of fear, just as Christine had.

They didn't speak any more of it the rest of the day, though Erik seemed horribly preoccupied every time Christine tried to speak to him. She suggested that they practice her singing for a while, to try to get her voice back to its former glory. Erik had agreed, but he'd played the organ in a rote and expressionless fashion. He'd hardly reacted to Christine's singing at all, giving her gruff, brief feedback.

Finally, when Christine was halfway through an aria, she stopped singing altogether, and Erik kept playing the organ part mindlessly. She finally tapped him on the shoulder, and he whirled to face her as if he had been ripped from complex thoughts. Christine raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

"I stopped singing thirty measures ago," she informed him, and Erik eyed her guiltily.

"I'm sorry," he said with a sigh. "I'm distracted."

"I can see that."

Erik chewed on his bottom lip, irritated, and said, "It's not what you think. I'm hardly sitting here plotting murder, Christine."

"Well, what are you thinking of, then?" Christine demanded, and Erik turned back to his sheet music. He wisped his fingers over the surface of the ivory keys.

"Last night," he mumbled finally.

Christine had to stop herself from laughing, for it would have seemed cruel to do so. In reality, she was simply amused that memories of a night spent together could so thoroughly divert and distract a mind like Erik's.

"This is how it was for two years," he continued quietly, his lithe fingers ghosting silently across the organ keys again. "I would dream of you, day and night, and wonder if I would ever see your face again. It made it rather difficult to… function…"

Christine's amused countenance softened, and she suddenly felt horribly guilty. All the while that she and Raoul had been enjoying their married life, Erik had been wallowing in grief and sorrow and anger. He'd been entirely alone, abandoned and forgotten. Of course, Christine reminded herself, she'd thought of him often… but not frequently or intensely enough to bring her feet to the Opéra Populaire.

"But I'm here now," Christine susurrated, trying to make her voice soothing as she reached out and placed her hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm here and I shall never, ever leave you again."

He just nodded and resolutely straightened his back. "From the top of the aria, then?" he suggested curtly, his voice tight and strained. He began playing again, and Christine sang for him, though this time he seemed to actually listen to her. He followed her ebbing and flowing tempo and was far more dynamic in his playing. When the aria was over, and Christine's last wavering note had died in the air, Erik turned to face her.

"Beautiful," he whispered, and Christine studied the melancholy in his eyes as he spoke the word. Even the malformed side of his face was visibly despondent, and Christine felt her eyes grow hot and sting.

"I had a very good teacher," she explained in response to his compliment, and her voice cracked with emotion.

Erik smiled sadly then and looked at his hands. He seemed to be remembering the days before she'd ever seen him, when all she knew of him was his voice and his tutelage. He looked back up at her with more grief than ever in his eyes.

"Do you know… I don't think I shall leave, after all," he said softly. "I think perhaps I shall stay in Paris and see what information I might glean here."

Christine just nodded, though a lone tear tumbled from her eye. She could not stand the thought of separation again, particularly when such risk was posed to Erik in his mission. As Erik took her hand gently in both of his and kissed her fingers, Christine thought to herself that it would be far better for them never to be apart again. The last separation had been too long and too painful, and now at last they were together. Why spoil it? Vengeance, justice, punishment… Erik could toss around all the reasons he liked for going after La Sorelli, but Christine felt selfish enough to reject them all. She wanted him here, with her, and she did not care about anything else.

She did not care, that is, until Erik went above ground that night in search of news. He returned with a newspaper, and handed it to Christine soberly when he disembarked the gondola.

Christine took the newspaper with trembling fingers and saw the headline splashed across the front page in massive letters. As soon as she'd read it, her eyes went wide and her jaw went slack, and she looked at Erik in pure terror. Her gaze dropped to the newspaper again and she read the headline once more, just to ensure she'd read correctly.

"BODY OF LA SORELLI FOUND IN RIVER SEINE."

* * *

**Affrettando**

* * *

_"The corpse of the former ballerina called La Sorelli has been fished out of the River Seine by Paris Police. La Sorelli, who has figured prominently in the scandalous series of deaths in the de Chagny family, was found under the Pont Neuf. Police stated that ligature marks around La Sorelli's neck indicate she was choked to death before her body was dumped in the river."_

Christine read the brief article three times over. "That's it?" she said incredulously. Though it was the lead story in the newspaper, the explanation of La Sorelli's death seemed sorely lacking in detail.

"The newspapers had very little confirmed information at the time they went to press, though of course it was already on everyone's lips at that point," Erik told Christine, gently taking the newspaper from her delicate hands. "Still, even tonight, no one is certain of what happened to her. The only fresh information is that a butler from the Comte's household vanished at the same time as La Sorelli, and has not been found."

"Why wouldn't they mention that earlier?" Christine demanded. "Instead, they started blindly accusing me."

Erik shrugged and shook his head. "Perhaps it was not sufficiently scandalous for a servant to leave his master's household a few days after the master was murdered."

Christine thought hard to the few times she'd been forced to visit Philippe in his own stately home. She recalled a handsome young butler opening the door, a man that Philippe had called Vincent. Christine did not know his last name. Her eyes went wide as she remembered a time when La Sorelli had been in the house at the time that Raoul and Christine came to visit. La Sorelli had flirted quite ostentatiously with the butler, as Christine now remembered.

"Of course," she breathed, looking fearfully into Erik's eyes. "Vincent. Vincent would have known about Raoul, would have known that I was in the way of Philippe getting money and houses… Vincent would have known, too, that La Sorelli stood in his way. Was Vincent mentioned at all in Philippe's will?"

"That I do not know," Erik admitted, shaking his head. "What is certain is that La Sorelli recently withdrew a large sum of Philippe's money from the bank and now she is dead."

Christine pondered that thought for a moment, and then said softly, "And you would have no compunction over killing Vincent if you found him."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Why should I?" he demanded. "He is a murderer, or so it would seem. Unless I had evidence to the contrary, it should seem to me that the best course of action for the entire world is to eliminate the man. And, no, Christine, I bear no compunction over killing a man such as him."

She frowned then, for she realized that Erik's solution to every danger was to 'eliminate' it by any means necessary – up to and including murder. In a way, perhaps, she ought to be glad that he was so defensive of her, but she was not. Instead, she felt a flush of fear, sudden and unwanted. It was a fear of Erik, and she did not like it one bit. She did not want to fear him; she wanted to love him without reason not to do so. But thinking of Erik committing murder brought her back to the night that he'd had a noose around Raoul's neck and had threatened the younger man's life. 'You are not alone,' Christine had told him before she kissed him, but that was exactly how she'd left him – alone, to continue skulking about without decent regard for human life.

Christine gulped and turned away from Erik, abruptly unable to face him. Erik placed his hand on her shoulder, and though it was heavy and warm, it brought Christine little comfort. He turned her back to face him, the sadness in his eyes indicating he knew what she was thinking, or at least that she was thinking ill thoughts of him.

"I love you, Christine. I only want to keep you safe. You have nothing to fear from me." He reached to tip her chin up to him, and he placed a delicate kiss upon her lips. As he did, Christine thought to herself that while she had nothing to fear of Erik, anyone and everyone who crossed them did. He kissed her again, more enthusiastically this time, and Christine felt warmth spread through her body.

Don't, she scolded herself, you'll only encourage him. Nonetheless, her arms snaked around his neck to the back of his head, where Christine felt rivulets of scar tissue coursing around his scalp.

Why was she drawn to his dangerous side? Why did the fact that he was different make her want him more? She might have moments of doubt, of fear, but if Christine was honest with herself, she did not intrinsically fear Erik. She never really had. She'd been afraid of the consequences of being with him, of what would happen to Raoul and to her freedom. She'd never truly been afraid of him.

She wondered absently, as Erik's fingers ensnared themselves in her curls, whether her fearlessness had made Erik love her even more than he had before meeting her. He'd been devastated both times she'd torn his mask from his face, but both times he had looked at Christine with pleading eyes, as if his love for her were so great that he could not bear it.

Christine felt a tear course down her cheek, squeezing out of her tightly clenched eye and dripping off her jaw onto Erik's hand. She kissed him more fervently than she ever had, trying to pour her soul into him through the hands that held her fast against his body.

"I love you, Christine," Erik said again, his voice insistent. "I always have and I always will."

Christine just nodded, for she could not bring herself to speak, and leaned in to kiss him again. Erik put a hand to her lips and murmured, "Shall we go to bed? I'm very tired."

"All right," Christine said softly, and she drifted away from him to stalk silently to her wardrobe.

He followed her, wordlessly, and when they reached the large polished wood armoire, Erik hesitated.

"Would you like me to leave while you undress?" he asked awkwardly.

"Why?" Christine blurted, though of course she knew that he was wondering if last night had been a fluke, if she felt differently now than she had then. But Christine had slept all the night beside him without a scrap of cloth on her, and so she thought it foolish to be bashful anymore. She began unbuttoning the front of her dress and slipped it up and over her head.

Erik did not answer her question, did not explain why he was so self-conscious. He simply licked his lips nervously and took his tailcoat off slowly. Christine admitted to herself that she was flattered by his respect for her, his willingness to ask permission before simply watching her strip off her clothes.

Nonetheless, she took her time removing her petticoat and bustle, and she unhooked her corset in a lazy, unhurried fashion. Erik watched her as he drifted off toward the wine rack, and he returned promptly bearing two wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot. By then, Christine was peeling her chemise up over her head and sliding her drawers off, and she kicked aside her shoes and stockings.

She turned to face Erik, unabashedly nude. He was pouring the wine into the glasses, and Christine could see his hand trembling as he did. He picked up his glass and took a large swig from it, and held Christine's out to her like a gift.

"Thank you," Christine murmured, sipping delicately from the glass. She felt Erik's eyes hot upon her flesh, soaking in her form, and he took another large gulp of wine.

"No nightgown tonight?" Erik's voice shook nearly as much as his hand had done, but his lips curled upward in a devious little smile. Christine shook her head no and silently imbibed from the glass.

Erik set his empty glass down and began to slowly undress, standing quite close to Christine as he untied his bow tie and began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. Christine swigged down the last of her wine and set down her glass, and then she reached out to push Erik's clothes off of his torso. They landed on the stone floor in a little pile, and neither of them paid any heed to the mess.

Christine felt herself reaching out to brush her fingertips over his taut muscles, and she kissed his chest delicately. Erik surprised her by groaning under his breath, and she heard his voice quiver with want as he said,

"Go to the bed, please."

Christine did as he commanded, smiling to herself as she did. She stalked over to the bed and faced away from Erik, running her fingers over the smooth sheets. She was taken quite by surprise when, a few moments later, she felt his hands upon her. They were moving quickly over her form, seizing her body her more roughly than he'd ever done. Christine found herself abruptly very aroused by his insistence, his eagerness, and she felt moisture blossom between her thighs.

"I need you," Erik moaned, gasping for air as he spoke. "I need to be inside of you, Christine."

His hands snaked around her form and fondled her breasts, his thumbs drifting over her peaked nipples. He moaned when he felt that they were already hard, responding quickly to his touch and his words. Christine felt shocked, all of a sudden, by his rough and persistent movements and by his graphic language. She wondered if he would like her to respond in kind, and so she tentatively put her hands over his and encouraged him to rub her even harder.

"Please take me," she whispered, her voice breathy with desire. She felt his erection between her thighs as he leaned down to course the tip of his member over her wet folds. "Ungh..." she uttered, feeling more alive than she ever remembered feeling. Every nerve in her body was edge from his words and his touch. She leaned over and put her hands on the bed, spreading her legs for him.

She heard him grunt as he aimed his twitching organ toward her entrance and pushed into her smoothly. She heard him sigh with relief at the feel of her walls stretching to accommodate him, and Christine for her part was panting so hard she feared she would faint.

He moved quickly then, in an almost unromantic fashion. He began thrusting immediately, his hands still wrapped around Christine's torso and pressed against her breasts. He pulled her against him every time he pushed in roughly. The slap of his pelvis against her backside only made Christine throb with more intensity.

"Yes," she breathed, "More, Erik. Harder. Please." Her voice was a plaintive wail by then, filling the dank space and echoing from the stone walls. Erik responded immediately to her request, moving his hands to her waist as he pushed her farther onto the bed. He began to vigorously thrust so quickly and roughly into Christine that she was unable to think. All that filled her mind was the feel of him pounding into her without abandon, the sound of his hips slapping her bum and of his moans. Finally, before she knew what was happening, she heard a growl rip from Erik and tear through the air. He stopped thrusting suddenly and then she felt him slip out of her and step away quickly.

"I'm sorry!" he cried, his voice desperate. Christine was at first confused, until she felt fluid leaking from her entrance and coursing down the inside of her thigh. She realized quickly that he had finished inside of her, hopefully on accident, and she knew it was too late to do anything about it.

"No..." she whispered, collapsing onto the mattress. She felt her shoulders shake and heave with silent sobs, and she shook her head against the sheets as though she could reverse what Erik had done... what she had made him do.

"I'm so sorry," Erik groaned again, from somewhere behind her. "I - I wasn't thinking; I was moving on instinct and it just happened and I'm so very sorry." The words gushed forth from his lips as he struggled to explain and apologize simultaneously.

Christine did not answer him, nor did she turn to look at him. She felt hot, bitter tears in her eyes as she burrowed her face in the sheets, and finally she said, "Please go, Erik."

He hesitated behind her, but when she turned her head enough to peek between her fingers at him, he was wordlessly collecting his clothing that had scattered around the space.

After he'd left and Christine was sure he was gone, she curled up in a ball beneath the sheets and cried for an hour. She was not sure when exactly she fell asleep, but when she did she had nightmares that she bore Erik's child and that the infant had the same deformity as its father. She dreamed that Erik drowned the child out of hate and shame.

The night was full of horror for her as she lay alone in the darkness, startled awake by her own frightful reveries. "Erik?" she called into the darkness, meekly at first, but then with more insistence. "Erik?"

In response, she received nothing but the silence that seemed to close in about her like a noose.

* * *

**Lacrimoso**

* * *

"Masquerade... paper faces on parade..."

The eerie sound of the wind-up monkey's music box jarred Christine from sleep, and when she opened her eyes and turned her head, she saw the tiny shining cymbals moving back and forth in the monkey's arms.

The first thing she noticed was candlelight, that the vast cavernous space around her was no longer cloaked in darkness. Christine blinked a few times so that everything around her came into sharper focus, and that was when she noticed Erik kneeling beside the bed.

She startled and sat up on her elbows, asking herself why he was on his knees upon the stone floor. He had on his white mask and was clothed in a loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers. Christine wondered distantly why he was so covered, but then her memory reminded her of what had transpired the night before, and her stomach sank.

"Please forgive me," Erik beseeched her, his voice sounding as though he had been crying. Indeed, Christine saw telltale red rims around his eyes and the salty streaks left behind by tears. Part of her heart ached for him, but another part was still very angry.

Erik saw the lack of forgiveness in Christine's eyes, and she watched as another tear streamed unattended down his good cheek. Perhaps she was being unreasonable, part of Christine's mind told her. How could she expect Erik, a man with very little experience when it came to intimacy, to have perfect control over the physical reactions of his body? How could she demand that he stop himself short every time they made love, putting all of the responsibility on him in so important a task? And, anyway, why was she now behaving as though being pregnant with his child was a certainty, and a horrifying one at that?

Then Christine remembered how long it had been since her eyes had known sunlight, and she was jarringly reminded of why the thought of a child frightened her so. What sort of a life could she and Erik give to an infant in this space, and what about when the child grew? Furthermore, she had spent so little time with him yet, and she selfishly thought that she needed him to herself for a while longer, before she had to share him with anybody.

So Christine did not respond to Erik's request for forgiveness, because she was having great difficulty bringing her broken heart to absolve him of what he'd done. Nevertheless, her gut roiled with emotion as he took her face gently in his hands and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, his lips trembling as he did.

"Please," she heard him whisper again, his voice a hiss in her ear, "at least say that you still love me."

Christine's chest pulled painfully when she heard the misery in his voice. "You know very well that I do," she told him, pulling her face away from his cheek.

"I've ruined it, haven't I?" Erik mumbled then, his wet pale eyes meeting hers. Christine knew what he meant, that he'd ruined the trust she'd managed to build for him. She wanted to tell him that he had not ruined anything, but the truth was that she felt far less certain of anything right now than she had since coming here. She did not answer his question, choosing instead to look away from Erik and murmur,

"Did you not say that Meg Giry was due this morning with supplies?"

Erik nodded, as if he were remembering that fact for the first time now. "She is," he admitted.

"Perhaps I ought to leave with her when she goes," Christine suggested quietly, and then her mind soured and she heard cruel words pour forth from her lips. "Or perhaps Meg should stay here with you. I'm quite certain she would not mind being shut up in here for all eternity, like a prisoner, while you inseminate her against her wishes. Perhaps Meg would want your child."

Erik's brow furrowed deeply as he stared at Christine, his jaw sinking slightly in disbelief at how vicious she could be. She knew just where to strike him with her words, to make him think that he was making her deeply discontented and that she would be much happier without him. He said nothing, but rose from the ground on visibly shaking legs and began to walk away. He paused and hesitated, and then he turned his head slightly over his shoulder.

"You have a magnificent voice. You are very good at singing," he began, and Christine looked at him with confusion in her eyes as he continued, "but you are far more talented at breaking my heart. That, my dear Christine, you are most skilled in doing, and I wonder where it is that you learned to be so cruel."

He sighed and continued walking away, and suddenly it was Christine feeling guilt and sorrow and grief in abundance. Her eyes burned as Erik's words stung her like a slap to the cheek, but she silently watched him go and said nothing to stop him.

* * *

"Christine, may I speak with you alone?" Meg Giry climbed from the gondola and left the supplies where they were for Erik to wordlessly unload. Her voice sounded irritated, and Christine glared at Erik, wondering what he'd told her.

"Of course," she heard her voice say to Meg, and she took the blonde girl's hand and guided her away from the shore, back toward her bed.

"What have you done to him?" Meg hissed suddenly, taking Christine off guard. Christine felt her brow crinkle indignantly at the abrupt accusation of wrongdoing, and she whispered back in a fervent, quiet voice,

"What have I done to him? Perhaps you should ask what he has done to me."

"Well, what happened, then?" Meg demanded. "In the past two years, I have seen him despondent over you, Christine, but never have I seen sadness so deep in his eyes. What happened?"

Christine just shook her head, knowing full well that Erik could hear every word that passed between her and Meg. She looked over Meg's shoulder and saw that Erik was silently putting away the supplies, pretending not to listen to the girls' whispered conversation.

"Take me with you when you leave," Christine blurted quietly, her voice barely audible to her own ears as she spoke. She looked back into Meg's blue eyes and saw deep suspicion.

"All right," Meg agreed, nodding cautiously. Behind her, Christine saw Erik's jaw twitch, and she knew he had heard her ask to leave.

"You're not going anywhere, Christine," he called out to her suddenly. The girls both startled and looked at him, and Meg reached out to clutch Christine's hands.

"You can not keep her here if she wants to go," Meg informed him boldly, and Erik stalked up toward both of them.

"She only wishes to go so that she can try to escape her guilt," Erik retorted. "She has been far more merciless and unkind than she ever knew she could be."

His steely pale eyes glared at Christine, and in them Christine saw that he was trying to disguise his hurt with a glaze of anger. She could see right through the artificial rage and straight into his crushed soul, and she gulped as she tried not to cry.

"The boat leaves in five minutes," Erik informed them as he walked away. "It leaves with only myself and one passenger."

* * *

** Brillante**

* * *

Christine watched as the portcullis was raised, her arms crossed over her chest in an irritated fashion.

When Erik and Meg were out of sight, Christine walked aimlessly toward the area where Erik kept his bed. She stared solemnly at the bed for a while, and then her eyes flicked up to Erik's full-length mirror. There was a strange darkness peeking around one side of the mirror, and Christine's brow furrowed as she curiously approached it. When she neared, she realized that there was space behind the mirror; it had been moved slightly and now revealed a gaping hole behind it.

Christine was instantly reminded of the mirror in her old dressing room, which served as a portal to Erik's world. She wondered if this space served the same purpose in reverse - if it were some sort of tunnel to the outside world. She reached for a candelabra and held the light up to the dark space. Inside, she could see cobwebs and a well-tread pathway, but she had no idea where the space led.

Christine looked anxiously over her shoulder, as if she would see Erik there. Her heart pounded as she contemplated entering the empty space. Even if she were only able to surface for a moment, just to breathe the air and see the wide open spaces, Christine thought a journey into the darkness was well worth the possibility of freedom.

She pushed the mirror further to the side and walked slowly into the empty space, her cheeks flushing with nervous energy. Her ears rang as she entered the lonely darkness, and her fear of the unknown was so great that she had difficulty stepping forward. In her haste to drive herself further into the darkness, Christine forgot to move the mirror back to its original location behind her.

She walked more briskly through the tunnel as it opened a bit, and then she saw a narrow, winding set of stairs before her. They looked as though they had been hewn by hand from the bedrock, and her trotting steps were unsteady as she ascended them. She knew she was going upward, toward the surface, the more she climbed, so she moved as quickly as she could. Her breath heaved frantically as she took the stairs, her chest pounding. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Christine saw a glow above her, and she knew it was sunlight.

She felt tears rush to her eyes as she approached the light, her feet pattering on the steps. She set the candelabra down on a ledge carved into the wall as she passed it, and kept climbing to the light. At last she could see that the light was shining in through a grate. When she saw the shape of shoe soles pass briskly above her and the green glow of tree leaves, she realized that this portal must be through a grate in the small park near the opera house.

Her eyes burned, not with tears, but from the light itself. So long had it been since she'd seen sunlight that Christine's eyes were entirely unaccustomed to the brightness. She blinked hard, willing her eyes to adjust so that she could see the world above the grate.

She listened carefully, and could hear a man and a woman talking softly. Their words were unclear, and their voices faded as the seconds passed. Christine assumed they were walking away from the grate. When there was complete silence, she put her hands on the bottom of the heavy iron grate and pushed. She could tell it was meant to move, but it was too heavy for her to push it open.

She nearly screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and her body filled with rage when she heard Erik's voice say softly,

"Christine..."

She whirled around her shoulder and saw him standing on the steps beneath her, trying to urge her back down into his dungeon. Christine angrily frowned at him, and she replied in a low hiss,

"Go away."

Erik did not look wounded by her words. Indeed, his countenance bore the same look of pity that Christine had given him when she'd first seen his mutilated face.

"Come back with me," he said gently, his voice smooth as silk. "It isn't safe for you out there."

He beckoned for her to descend the steps, but Christine pushed again insistently on the grate. It was far too heavy for her, and, anyway, she had to stop because she heard more voices approaching. As the voices got nearer, Christine found herself cowering away from the grate, trying to hide in the shadows behind the reach of its light. She was terrified that one of the passers-by would glance down and see her face through the grate.

Erik stepped into the shadows beside her, pressing his back against the stone wall. Christine glanced up to the grate and saw the footsteps that matched the voices.

"Please come with me," Erik whispered again from beside her, once the footsteps were gone. "That world is not safe for you, Christine."

Safe. Christine pondered the word as she tried to breathe in air from above, as she soaked in the painful brightness with her eyes. What did it mean anymore for her to be safe?

Find him, and he will keep you safe, Raoul had told her. What had he known? Had he known that Christine would never be free again once she went into hiding? Had he known that if she did not hide, she would likely die? Why had Raoul been so fearful?

Christine turned her head to face Erik, and he leaned near her to plant a delicate kiss upon her forehead.

"I will keep you safe," Erik murmured, echoing Raoul's words. His lips migrated to Christine's ear and, as he stroked her hair with his fingertips, he whispered, "Just come back with me."

Christine looked up to the grate with longing, but she realized that Erik was right. What exactly would she do if she went above ground? How would she avoid being seen by someone who would recognize her? She would have to hide again, above ground, and she did not see how that was any better than hiding down below. At least in the bowels of the opera house, she had Erik with her.

For what that was worth, she thought rather bitterly. They were hardly on good terms at the moment; he so angry at her for her cruel words and she at him for what he'd done the night before.

But as Christine wrenched herself away from the light and took Erik's hand, she found herself free from her anger. With every step down she took, she forgave him more and more, as she realized that he was her only hope, her Angel.

"I love you," she whispered into the growing darkness, as Erik led her down the stairs. He did not answer, but Christine saw the corners of his lips curl up a bit in happiness.

Christine cast one more glance skyward, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the bright, clear light before she descended again into darkness. But it was too late; her view was obscured by the winding stairs above her, and the sunlight was gone.

* * *

** Fortissimo**

* * *

"On that top C, Christine, try to make your vibrato a bit tighter. More bird-like. Once more from that same spot." Erik gently pressed the keys of his organ to give Christine the beginning chord of the aria they were practicing. He nodded for her to begin singing.

"_Sempre libera degg'io / follegiara di gioia in gioia_…"

Christine sang the aria as brightly as she could manage, wanting her voice to shimmer for Erik as he accompanied her. Erik jumped in with Alfredo's part as the piece from _La Traviata_ rang forth, and Christine shut her eyes as he sang. She relished the mellifluous, honeyed sound of his voice and breathed deeply as the notes escaped his lips. She joined him again at her cue, the words pouring forth effortlessly from her as though she had never stopped singing.

When the piece was through, Erik turned over his shoulder and smiled weakly at Christine, and she could tell for the first time since she'd come back to him that he was truly happy. Even the disfigured side of his face radiated delight, and he murmured, "That was beautiful."

She smiled back at him, feeling her eyes prickle a bit as she did, and she leaned forward to plant a soft kiss upon his lips.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Christine had tried to run away, since she had seen the light through the grate, and much had changed. With each passing day, she realized she would be much happier here, with Erik, than trying to hide in the world above without him. At night, his words haunted her dreams. '_Come back with me. It isn't safe for you out there.'_

She had nightmares that people came down through the grate and discovered them here, and that they took Erik from her. Each time, she would awaken to find Erik beside her, slumbering in peace, and she would cling to him like a life preserver. She had finally invited him back into her bed a week after seeing sunlight, when she had come around to the idea of staying here with him. He had been chaste and respectful, sleeping beside her but doing nothing more than occasional kissing.

Now, though, Christine was growing impatient for two reasons. First of all, she wanted him badly, and so his discretion was starting to wear thin. Also, she was due to bleed in a few days and could scarcely take the tension of not knowing whether or not she was with his child.

She tried to keep her mind off of the idea by singing often with him and by reading. She was also resurrecting her long-forgotten sewing skills by mending his old clothes, and she kept their underground home tidy and clean.

None of these activities sufficiently distracted her, though, so Christine finally began to question what the 'worst-case' scenario would be. Perhaps she _was_ with child – with Erik's child… it could be far worse. She could be dead, killed because she did not give him the opportunity to save her. She could be lonely, left alone by Raoul's death and feeling thoroughly unloved. But she was alive, and she was loved, and so Christine steeled her mind to whatever possibilities lay ahead. She reminded herself every time she looked at him that Erik loved her, and that that was what mattered.

Now, as Christine stood back up from kissing Erik, she saw his hands drift from the organ keys and hover atop his lap. He looked as though he desperately wanted to touch her, but was afraid to do so for fear she'd lash out at him as she had weeks earlier.

Christine scolded herself for the hundredth time about having made him feel undesired and unwelcome in her life. He was here, taking care of her, loving her, and she had abused him because of her own irrational fears. Angry with herself, Christine reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his, squeezing gently. Her free hand flitted up to his head, where the sparse hairs hung wiry and wild from his scalp, and she petted him gently there. She leaned down to kiss his lips again and felt his trembling. She smiled sadly to herself, realizing that he was restraining himself tightly against his desire – perfectly legitimate desire based in love, as Christine told herself.

"I want you," she whispered into his ear, pressing her cheek against his and feeling the rivers of scar tissue against her skin. Her hand squeezed his again, and she murmured urgently, "Please. I need you."

She pulled away from him to stand, seeing the look of surprise in his wide eyes at her forward advances. Weeks' worth of pent-up craving crossed his face then, and his eyes darkened with want.

"My Angel," Christine said softly, watching as Erik's eyes fluttered closed, "I have not let you love me as I promised to do."

Erik rose to his feet then, his height bearing down on Christine as he towered above her. "I promise," he susurrated, "I'll never…"

He trailed off then, the unspoken vow being that he would try his best to acquiesce to Christine's fear of pregnancy. The last time they'd made love had ended with Christine furious at him. She knew he must be filled with regrets, and though she had indeed been angry at the time, she now harbored no ill will against him for what he had done. It had been an accident, she reminded herself. It had been the result of passion flamed beyond control.

"Don't say 'never.'" Christine shook her head gently, reaching up to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "Just say 'not yet.'"

She knew it could already be too late, that the damage had been done, but all she could do was wait and pray for her blood. In the meantime, she needed him to seal their reconciliation, to make her submission to his protection complete.

She knew he was leaving again tonight, in search of the butler Vincent, of clues that would bring the man to justice. Christine needed Erik _now_, before he left her again, so that his absence would not bring the acute stabs of loneliness it so often did.

But Erik just leaned down and kissed her lips gently, and he looked at her with a sad little smile. "All right, then," he murmured, "Not yet."

Christine's brow furrowed as he pulled away from her and sat again on the organ bench, ghosting his fingers over the keys. He stared for a long moment at the sheet music in front of him, and then he said in an artificially bright voice, "Let's try it once more from the top of the aria. The last time was lovely. Make this one even better."

Feeling slightly deflated by his rejection of her advances, Christine narrowed her eyes a bit in frustration. Then she took a deep breath and started singing for him.

* * *

Christine went to bed nude that night. She hoped that if Erik came home and found her without a scrap of clothing on her body, that he would be unable to resist her any longer. His own reservations would be cast aside and he would succumb to the love they were meant to share with one another.

She tucked herself between the sheets, feeling their silkiness slide against her bare skin. She fell asleep with thoughts of Erik kissing her deeply racing through her mind, and she dreamed of him as she did frequently. He'd left after supper to go above ground, and when Christine went to bed at midnight, he still had not returned. In past days, perhaps Christine would have worried after him, but she knew he could defend himself against any danger and that he was particularly good at lurking in nighttime shadows.

Sure enough, the feel of the mattress depressing as Erik climbed into the bed was what awakened Christine. She was unsure of the hour, though it felt like she'd been asleep for quite a while. She lay still and kept her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. For a long moment, there was silence in the room, and all Christine could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Finally, she heard Erik chuckle in a low voice behind her, and she felt her face crinkle in confusion.

"You may not realize it, but your breath quickens when you are awake. I know very well that you are not sleeping," Erik said matter-of-factly. Christine felt her stomach flutter with embarrassment as she slowly rolled over to face him.

When she did, the sheet slipped from her a bit, and her bare shoulders and chest were revealed to him. Erik gaped at Christine, wide-eyed, as the amused smile on his face faded.

"What did you find out?" Christine asked, her voice soft but smooth. Erik did not answer her. Instead, his trembling hand reached for the sheet and covered Christine back up.

"Why are you naked?" He asked, and Christine pursed her lips.

"You did not answer my question," she informed him crossly.

"Nor you mine," Erik retorted. Christine reached out to stroke the good side of his face, feeling how his cheek was flushed and warm. She sensed that he would not address his trip above ground until she accounted for her nudity, so she said,

"I felt too warm to wear anything."

His eyes narrowed. He knew full well that she was lying to him, and of course he knew the real reason for her lack of clothes. A fire lit in his eyes as he seemed to realize how wanted and desired he was.

"Fine," he said, the corners of his lips curling a bit wickedly. "Be careful what you wish for, Christine."

Erik's hand drifted beneath the sheets and reached between Christine's thighs. He gently knifed his way toward her folds, and Christine felt his fingers brush against her clit delicately. Instantly, a rush of sensation flooded her lower abdomen, and his fingers began to slide more easily as he activated her arousal and triggered the development of moisture between her legs.

"I've found him," Erik said triumphantly, a pompous smile crossing his lips. Christine tried to focus her gaze against the feel of his fingers and looked into Erik's eyes.

"What?" she asked distantly, unsure that she'd heard him correctly. Erik's fingers delved into Christine's entrance, now slick and ready and inflamed.

"The butler, Vincent," Erik clarified as Christine gasped, feeling his long, lithe digits hooking inside of her. Part of Christine could care less about Vincent at the moment, given what Erik was doing to her, but the logical part of her mind screamed for more information.

"You've found him?" she managed to ask, her voice tight as Erik's thumb circled around her nub insistently. She felt her back arch of its own accord, and her hands grasped at the bed sheets as she tried to listen to Erik's voice.

"I know where he is," Erik said, his own breath quickened with desire. "He's hiding in a boarding house. Tomorrow I will go there and… eliminate him."

Christine suddenly wondered if Erik was only touching her because he was excited about all of this. Perhaps he was aroused by the thought of killing, though Christine hoped that was not true. On the contrary, she reasoned, Erik was relieved that he'd located the threat and had the means to eliminate it, and his worry and tension had dissipated enough to make him want her again. He'd been so filled with angst and stress about the situation above ground, and now, finally, he had the villain within his grasp. The sheer victorious exhilaration had taken over him, and he had been presented with a naked woman upon arrival home. What else was he supposed to do aside from what he was now doing to Christine?

He was pumping his fingers furiously in and out of Christine's entrance and rubbing her clit with his thumb relentlessly. She moaned shamelessly, egging him on and feeling her pleasure bubble up inside of her.

"You will be safe at last," Erik told Christine, and his voice was gravelly and rough with hunger. "I will keep you safe, my little Angel."

Christine knew then that _that_ was the cause of his arousal – the thought that he was able to successfully protect her and be her caretaker. Christine seized on that notion and said in a little whimper,

"It was always you, Erik. My guardian… angel…" Her voice died in the air as she grew dizzy with the excitement of his fingers' movement. His lips were against hers then, kissing furiously as he hovered atop her. His fingers moved more insistently than ever.

"Submit to my touch, Christine. I want to feel you tighten around my fingers. Come on, my treasure."

Christine was blinded then, momentarily, as her pleasure exploded inside of her. Perhaps it was his touch. Perhaps it was his words. More likely, it had been both to throw her off the cliff. Her muscles clamped hard around his fingers, spasming rapidly and tightly. His name was ripped from her lips as she gasped for air, her ears ringing. Her head drove back against the pillow and her toes curled beneath the sheets. Her entire body felt flush with gratification, and her hands reached anxiously for Eric's face as she came for him.

"Oh… there it is, my own lovely girl," he purred, his voice little more than a desperate growl as his own breath hitched and gasped unevenly.

When she had come down from her high and lay panting on her back, Christine realized she had never in her life experienced a climax nearly so satisfying or intense as that she'd just sustained. She desperately wanted to make Erik feel that alive; she wanted him to lose control the way she had done.

She reached for the buttons on his trousers and felt the enormous lump beneath the fabric. Her fingers brushed back and forth on his erection, teasing him through the material, and Erik shuddered above her.

"Ahh…" Erik rasped, shutting his eyes tightly. "Do not torment me, little one."

He flopped onto the mattress beside her and reached impatiently for his buttons, and Christine watched as he slithered out of the trousers and perched himself atop her once more. Now there was nothing at all stopping him from plundering her, and as he spread Christine's legs with his knees, the tip of his cock brushed against her hypersensitive entrance. Christine yelped, shocked at how much the tiny touch made her react.

Erik grinned down at her crookedly, and in a hoarse voice he demanded, "Is_ this_ what you wanted, my little vixen? Is _this _why you were naked for me?" He brushed his tip against her again and again, and Christine ached for him to push into her.

"Yes!" she cried desperately. "Please…"

"Please what?" Erik asked innocently.

"P-please… please take me." Christine's voice was barely audible; she had no breath with which to speak. Her eyes clenched shut, and she felt Erik rumble with laughter.

"Look at me," he insisted. "I want you to watch me while I take you."

Christine wrenched her eyes open and gasped a bit when she saw the wildness in his eyes. His pupils were so dilated that she could hardly see his irises. Beads of sweat pooled on his forehead as he stared at her, and then Christine felt the abrupt fullness of him pushing into her.

She cried out, clutching his cheeks frantically. He was throbbing inside of her, more engorged than she'd ever felt him. His cock twitched with the excitement of being inside her, and a satisfied smile crossed Erik's lips. His arms shook on either side of Christine's head as he began sliding in and out, slowly and deliberately.

"Please… faster," Christine begged wantonly, knowing that he wanted to hear her grovel for him. "Harder. I need you…"

He grunted as he sped up his ministrations, thrusting his pelvis toward hers in a swaying sort of dance. His lunges grew ragged with his breath, and as he began to furiously pummel Christine, she knew he must be near his zenith.

"Do it, Erik," she blurted, unsure even in her own mind why she wanted him to finish inside of her. She was so certain she would not conceive today; her blood was due very soon and she knew herself to be chronically infertile. Besides, any risk of him giving her a child did not frighten her as it once had. Come what may, she needed him to feel his seed inside of her as an affirmation of their love, their mutual trust.

"No…" Erik shook his head feverishly, stunned out of his little fantasy of domination for the moment.

"Please do it, Erik." Christine looked into his eyes intently as he rocked above her. She could hear his breath, deep and jagged, and knew he had to be close. There was very little time for him to make a decision, though Christine saw the conflict in his eyes as he wavered for the briefest moment. She nodded reassuringly at him, her hands drifting to his sculpted abdomen as she urged him on.

Resolution and relief crossed Erik's face then, as he understood that Christine was indicating her trust and lack of fear through her permission. He growled loudly and groaned as he came, the movement of his hips suddenly slow and uneven as he tried to remain inside her as long as he could.

He collapsed down onto his elbows, his face landing upon the pillow beside Christine's head. His body pressed flush against hers, but he managed to hold his weight off of her.

"Ungh…" he sobbed, his voice muffled by the feather pillow. Christine felt him slide out of her, and felt his seed leaking out of her onto the sheets. She smiled triumphantly to herself, feeling proud that she'd conquered her unease at last. Now all there was inside her mind was a feeling of devotion, of gratitude, toward Erik. Her eyes fluttered shut as she absorbed the feel of his hot, flushed body against hers.

"I love you… _so much," _she heard him murmur, and she felt his shaking lips kiss her cheek. "My treasure, my only darling… I will _always_ keep you safe, and tomorrow you shall know freedom from fear at last."

* * *

**Scordatura**

* * *

Erik left as soon as he knew that Paris was cloaked again in darkness. Christine felt her stomach roil with anxiety as she watched him punt the gondola away.

He was off in search of a man who would know death tonight, a man who would find out what happened to those that crossed Erik. For some reason, the thought of Erik exacting revenge and defending Christine made her skin tingle. She was unafraid for the first time in ages; she no longer feared what Erik could do, but instead relished it.

Raoul had wanted her to come to Erik for safe keeping. What would Raoul say about all of this mess? What would Raoul say to the prospect of Erik committing murder in order to save Christine? She could not think of that now, she scolded herself. She needed to simply be grateful that Erik was so defensive of her, that he would do anything to keep her safe.

Christine padded slowly away from the shore, retreating to a chair and shakily picking up the book she had been reading earlier. She read the words for over an hour, though she did not process them, for her mind was racing. What was happening above ground? Where was Erik now? Christine chewed upon her lip and knew that tonight she would not sleep until Erik returned. Giving up on the book, she rose from the chair and began pacing anxiously around the cavernous space.

Christine felt cramps in her lower abdomen, sharp and intense. She wondered at first if it was simply nerves causing her the discomfort, but then she realized she was due to bleed any day now, and these pains were always the harbinger of her cycle. Christine rushed to the space where her bed was, and quickly began to undress. She unbuttoned her dress swiftly and tossed it onto the bed, and she shucked her petticoats, as well. Then Christine saw it, obvious and vibrant – there was blood upon her drawers.

She instantly began to sob, though it was impossible for her to pinpoint the emotion that triggered the tears. She heaved with cries, burying her face in her hands. She felt relief, of course; she was very clearly not with child. But another part of her felt a pang of sadness. Over the past two weeks, Christine had steeled herself for the possibility of a child, and she had imagined what it would be like to be a mother in this space. For two years she had tried desperately to conceive with Raoul, to no avail. Perhaps the problem was hers, she thought with woe. Perhaps she was completely barren and no man could ever give her a child. But she was only nineteen years old, and the thought of being childless forever made her cry even harder.

She thought back to her wedding night with Raoul, vivid in her memory. She could see the faint smile on his face as he hovered above her. She could still feel the pain from tearing as he entered her. Between then and Raoul's death, they'd made love more times than she could count, always praying that this would be the time Christine would conceive.

It never happened, and now Raoul was gone. Christine would never, ever bear Raoul's child, and she had accepted that fact as she had watched them lower his coffin into the ground. But Erik was here, and Erik loved her, and perhaps some small part of Christine's mind had thought that Raoul's dreams would be realized through Erik's love for her.

She cleaned herself up and put on a new set of drawers, tucking rags into her undergarments. She was infinitely thankful that Erik was not here to see her like this, dissolved into miserable tears over something she'd said she wanted. She knew he would be acutely uncomfortable with the entire situation, so she resolved to gird her emotions and dressed again.

She sat in a chair and stared at the lake, letting time pass unnoticed as her eyes looked blankly ahead. Finally, she heard the sound of the portcullis raising, and she looked up to see Erik punting the boat back towards her. It was not until he was through the portcullis that Christine noticed he seemed to handle the row with a great deal of difficulty. She could see his arms shaking from yards away, and as he approached her she noticed there was blood spattered on his face, the flecks of red showing up sharply against his white mask.

"My God!" Christine cried, dashing from the chair and hurrying to where Erik grounded the boat. "What on Earth happened to you?"

Erik was breathing raggedly, panting from the exertion of punting the boat, and he saw Christine's eyes searching his face for answers. He reached up and took off his mask, and then he stared at the blood that had coagulated upon its surface.

"It must have splattered," he said hoarsely, but then he unbuttoned and peeled back his black tailcoat, and Christine gasped when she saw that part of his white shirt beneath was completely soaked through with blood. There was a tear in the shirt from where it appeared Erik had been stabbed, on the upper left side of his abdomen. "This... hurts..." Erik pronounced, gesturing to his wound with the hand that held the mask. He suddenly looked as though his legs were going to give out on him, and he stumbled forward a bit.

Christine yelped in horror, reaching her hands out helplessly toward him. "Oh, Erik…" She immediately turned from him and dashed toward her wardrobe. What could she use to bandage him? She threw open the doors of the wardrobe and immediately saw a clean linen chemise hanging. Christine snatched it quickly from its hanger and began to tear the shift apart, trying her best to wind up with long, thin swatches of linen.

She tucked the linen strips under one arm and dashed to the washstand. She poured water with a shaking hand into the basin and dipped the remains of the chemise into the water. She wrung it out and ran as quickly as she could back toward Erik. He was sitting in a chair at the little table, and he removed his fedora with one hand as he leaned back and shut his eyes against the pain. Christine saw him gulp heavily and she knew he was hurting. She tossed the bandages onto the table with the wet rag and deftly unbuttoned Erik's waistcoat and shirt. He allowed her to push the clothing off of his torso, and she gasped in horror when she saw the wound on his abdomen. Christine reached immediately for the wet rag on the table and pressed it hard against Erik's bleeding stomach. She applied as much pressure as she could in order to staunch the bleeding, and Erik hissed in pain.

"What happened up there?" Christine demanded, her eyes wild with fear. Erik panted and tried to catch his breath, and when he spoke, it looked as though it pained him greatly to do so.

"I... I arrived at the boarding house and slipped in through a window," he began, and Christine listened to his words with rapt attention as she pressed the cloth against his wound. "I found my way to Vincent's room. I was waiting for him to return back to his room from eating downstairs. When he returned, I snuck up behind him and trapped him in my lasso. I cinched it, and when I did, he tore a knife from his pocket and reached back to stab me before I could catch his arm."

Christine swallowed heavily and very gently lifted the wet cloth from Erik's abdomen just long enough to see that he was still bleeding. She applied more pressure, her hand going numb and the cloth becoming stained with his blood.

"I stood there with his knife in my gut and I strangled him right then and there. I had intended on questioning the man, but when he stabbed me, I had no choice but to kill him quickly."

"Oh, Erik..." Christine moaned, tears silently streaming down her cheeks as she pondered the terrible way in which the night had unfolded. "You need a doctor," she insisted. "We have to get a doctor down here."

"No!" Erik shook his head vehemently. "No. Once the world knows I am still down here, you are no longer safe."

Christine's eyes went wide and her curls shook. "I don't care about my safety anymore, Erik."

Erik panted from the exertion of speech, clenching his eyes shut against his agony. "What about that of our child?" he asked softly.

Christine felt her heart break for him in that instant, and she was jolted back to the reality that she herself was bleeding. "No, Erik," she murmured, wondering if he was delirious with pain and had convinced himself that she was pregnant. "There is no child. There's just me."

"Ah," Erik whispered, nodding. His eyes were still shut and he squirmed in his chair as Christine pressed hard against his wound. "I see. That's... a relief, then."

He did not sound so certain about the extent of his relief. Christine knew he was right, though; getting a doctor down here and keeping it all a secret did not seem very likely. Neither could she venture alone to fetch one without giving away that the Dowager Vicomtesse de Chagny was, in fact, alive and well. It occurred to her that she had sewing supplies near the bed, and she did not think she had any other choice.

"Here. Hold this tightly," she commanded Erik, and she put his hand on the cloth. She felt how hard he was shaking, and that his hands were cold. She dashed off to fetch a needle and thread, and when she returned to him, Erik was gasping for air. His eyes rolled back a bit in his head, and then he glanced down to the cloth he was clutching and saw that it was saturated with blood.

"I'm going to stitch you up," Christine informed him matter-of-factly, feeling a bit nauseated as she coursed the needle through the flame of the candle on the table. Though the position in which he was sitting was awkwardly upright, Christine was too afraid to move him to lie him down. Erik hesitantly pulled the blood-soaked cloth away from his body, and Christine watched, horrified, as blood gurgled to the surface of the wide, deep wound.

Her hand was shaking fiercely as she thread the needle, and she wiped clean the wound in order to sew. As she gulped heavily and directed the needle toward Erik's skin, he placed his hand on hers.

"I love you, Christine," he murmured, and he steadied his breath. "Do it now, please."

Christine, spurred on his words, stabbed into the lower edge of the wound and cringed as she felt the resistance of his skin against the needle. She shuddered as she pulled the thread through. The next twenty stitches gradually grew easier, but Christine had to wipe the wound clean twice as she stitched. She was also alarmed at the fact that Erik's breath began to slow and his head lolled a bit to the side.

At last, the wound was stitched and no longer bleeding. Christine felt tears rising to her eyes as she was taken back to Raoul's mild injury, which had led directly to his death through infection. She began to sob as she helped Erik off the chair. He leaned heavily against her as they stumbled to the swan bed, and Christine managed to get him lying down. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and shining.

"Why are you crying?" he asked quietly, reaching up with a cringe to sweep Christine's tears from her eyes.

"I can't lose you," she whispered, clutching his chilled hand to her cheek.

"You won't. I promise," he mumbled, and he shut his eyes. Christine stared down at him, at how his ruined face had gone pale, and she felt a stab of fear in her stomach. She took his hand from her cheek and rested it gently upon the mattress. Her blood-stained fingers coursed over his wincing scarred face.

"I love you," she vowed, "and I swear to you I will make you well."

Erik nodded slightly, and the corners of his lips curled up sadly.

Christine's breath shook as she watched him sleep that night, unable to sleep herself for fear that when she woke, he would be gone from her. Vincent was dead, and Erik had endured this wound on Christine's behalf, and now the only fear she had was of losing him. Her father and Raoul had died and left her. She could not bear it with Erik.

* * *

**Concertino**

* * *

Christine was startled awake by the sound of Erik groaning softly beside her.

At some point, she had fallen asleep, she realized. She quickly reached for the candelabra beside the bed to illuminate Erik's face, and she saw him lying in troubled slumber, making little noises of distress as he slept. Christine hesitated to wake him, but he was squirming about and she worried that he would tear his stitches.

She shook his shoulder gently and said his name into the darkness, and Erik's eyes fluttered open. Christine could see in the candlelight that tears had wormed their way over the trenches and ridges on his face.

"Erik," she hissed fretfully, "are you all right? Are you in too much pain?"

Erik stared at her from where he lay, reaching tentatively up to stroke her worried face. "I'll be all right," he managed, his breathing labored. "It was just a dream." He pinched his eyes together then, panting through clenched teeth.

"You're in pain," Christine said knowingly. "What can I do to help you?"

"There is a tincture... on the shelf where I keep them... It is in a green glass bottle," Erik struggled to speak, blinking hard through his pain. "Bring it here and I shall take it."

Christine dashed off with the candelabra in her hand, searching the cabinet out by the little table for the right bottle. At first, she did not see it, and she cursed in frustration. Then, at last, she saw the little green vial, hidden among the stash of bottles. Christine worried about what was in the vial, remembering that the last time Erik had given her one of his tinctures, she'd been knocked unconscious for hours.

Nevertheless, she brought it back to the bed and uncorked the vial, standing beside Erik. She placed the vial against his lips, and he parted them so she could pour the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and made a face against the taste.

"What did I just give you?" Christine asked cautiously.

"Laudanum," Erik answered simply. Christine's stomach sank. Laudanum was dangerous enough when given in the proper dose; what if Erik had had too much? Yet, she knew it would help his pain and allow him to rest properly.

Christine sank back onto the mattress beside Erik and watched him carefully. His eyes closed gently and, within a few minutes, his breathing slowed. Christine thought he had fallen back to sleep, and was relieved that he was no longer visibly in pain. But then Erik made a little noise in the back of his throat, and he whispered,

"Christine... I love you with all of my soul."

She felt her eyes well instantly upon hearing his words, and she slid beside him and kissed his cheek.

"You are my Angel on Earth," she reminded him, fearing that he was giving up entirely on the idea of painful healing. He did not answer her for a long moment, though she saw the corners of his lips curl sadly and his head lolled toward her. His eyes opened slowly, and they were glazed and dull.

"I'm going to be fine, Christine," he promised her. "I've been through... much worse. The important thing is that he's dead."

Vincent. He was speaking of Vincent, the bastard who had tried to kill both of them, Christine thought with an angry sneer. Her mouth tasted bitter as she thought of Vincent plunging a knife into Erik's side as Erik killed him.

"My God, Erik," she whispered, reaching out to stroke his cheek, "I did not want this for you. I was afraid something would happen to you; I was so anxious! Why did I let you go up there?"

"Let me?" Erik released a low, sardonic laugh. "From the moment you came back to me, I had no other choice."

Christine was roiled with guilt then, thinking angrily that she should have just let him be, that she should have let whatever was going to happen to her come to pass. Instead, she'd interfered with fate and Erik was paying the price for her foolishness.

"I should never have come back," she said hastily. "I've put you in danger..."

Erik's brow furrowed and he shook his head gently against the pillow. "Never say that again," he commanded. "I give thanks every day that you came back to me. This silly little wound is a small price to pay to have you back."

Christine could not answer him, for the words caught in her throat as she struggled to find the right thing to say to him. She simply stroked his cheeks soothingly and leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

"There is no child, then?" Erik asked distantly, sounding as though he were drifting off to sleep. His eyes shut and he lay very still.

Christine shook her head in shame, though of course he could not see her. "No," she answered. "There is no child."

He did not answer for a while, but Christine saw a solitary tear escape his closed eye and course down his scarred cheek.

"I'm sorry," she found herself saying, thinking back to the many months in which she'd apologized to Raoul for having her blood. In this case, of course, a child had not been planned or prayed for, but perhaps Erik had steeled himself against the idea of it the way Christine had done. Perhaps he'd realized it would not be so bad, after all, if Christine bore him a child.

"No," Erik croaked in response to Christine's apology. "You've nothing for which to be sorry. I have got a thousand reasons to be sorry, Christine. Besides, all I need to be happy is you. What will come will come if it is His will."

She'd never heard Erik wax poetic about God before; the only mention of religion she'd ever heard from him had been to tell her he wanted her to marry him in a proper church, in front of a priest. Christine swallowed heavily and, reminded of God for the first time in a long while, she began to pray for Erik.

* * *

In the morning, Erik was difficult to rouse as a result of the laudanum he'd taken, and Christine was not able to properly wake him before she realized that Meg Giry was due with supplies.

Christine was conflicted as she stood dressed beside the bed. They needed food, of course, but Christine did not want to leave the sleeping Erik for even a moment to go fetch Meg from the other side of the shore. Finally, she heard Meg's voice ring out, and she knew she had no other option.

"Hello?" Meg called across the water.

"I'm coming, Meg," Christine answered, hustling to the boat and struggling to steer it with the row.

"Christine?" Meg's voice sounded confused, as if she'd fully been expecting Erik to answer her instead of Christine. The portcullis raised when Christine hit the gear with the oar, and she tried to aim the boat in the right direction, pushing the long oar against the ground with all of her might.

At last, Christine arrived at the other side of the lake, where Meg Giry stood in a long cape, her cherubic face looking baffled.

"Where's Erik?" Meg asked hesitantly as she began to load a crate of food and wine into the gondola.

Christine helped her, for it looked as though the crate were very heavy. The two girls climbed back into the boat, and Meg sat down, looking at Christine expectantly.

"He's been... injured," Christine said cautiously. "He was above ground and he was stabbed."

They reached the portcullis, and Christine hit the gear to open it. Meg stared at her, mouth open with surprise.

"Why? Who..." Her voice trailed off, and Christine followed the direction of Meg's gaze to see Erik standing on the shore. He leaned heavily upon the little table there and appeared to be panting desperately. He was shirtless except for the makeshift bandages wrapped around his torso. He wore his sleeping trousers and was barefoot. Christine knew he must have staggered from the bed to the table, and she called out to him.

"Sit down, Erik," she commanded, and he glanced up to see the boat approaching. When he saw the stern look upon Christine's face, he sank slowly into one of the chairs.

"My God," Meg breathed from beside Christine. "He's really quite hurt."

Christine wanted to tell Meg that she didn't know the half of it, that Christine had struggled to sew him up the night before and had been forced to dose him with laudanum. Instead, she nodded grimly, unwilling to take her eyes off of Erik.

He'd put on his mask, which had been resting on the table. As Christine grounded the boat and unloaded the supplies, she saw that it was still spattered with his blood. Beside her, Meg Giry gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.

"We must get a doctor!" she exclaimed. Christine eyed her soberly.

"We have considered that. Erik does not want..." Her voice trailed off, for she wasn't sure how to phrase Erik's fears of being discovered. Meg seemed to understand what she meant, and the two girls walked fearfully toward the table where Erik sat.

"You were gone when I woke," Erik said, his voice strained. "I thought you'd left me..."

"I just went to fetch Meg." Christine gestured to the blonde girl at her side. "I should have left a note; I'm sorry if you were frightened. I would never leave you like this, Erik."

Meg looked mildly uncomfortable when she saw the loving gases exchanged between Erik and Christine.

"Come here and kiss me," Erik ordered, his words hoarse and gruff. Christine knew he must have still been subject to the effects of the laudanum, but her cheeks reddened with embarrassment anyway.

"Erik... Meg is here," Christine reminded him, through gritted teeth and an awkward smile.

"She won't mind," Erik insisted groggily, his eyes glazed as he stared at Christine. She looked desperately to Meg. Both girls knew he would not let the matter drop, and Meg shrugged helplessly at Christine. It was obvious that Erik was drugged. He could not be held accountable for his words or actions.

"Go on, Christine," Meg urged her, and she chastely turned away when Christine reached Erik.

Christine leaned down to delicately press her lips against Erik's, but he captured her mouth and swept his tongue over her lips. He let out a low groan of pleasure when Christine's lips parted obligingly. Humiliated, Christine wrenched her mouth from him and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said to Meg, red-faced and mortified. "He's not..." She gestured helplessly at Erik as if to demonstrate that he was not in control of himself.

"It's all right, Christine," Meg insisted, her voice quiet.

"We should all have some music," Erik said abruptly, his eyes distant as he looked beyond Christine at some mental picture he was forming. "I shall play the organ, and Christine will sing, and Meg can dance."

Meg suppressed a baffled expression, and Christine cleared her throat. Her cheeks grew hotter by the second; she was horribly embarrassed for Erik and just wanted him to go lie back down and sleep off the laudanum.

"We are not going to do that right now," Christine said firmly. Then, seeing the look of disappointment cross Erik's sallow face, she added, "Perhaps later."

She had no intention of a music party, however, and Meg knew that full well.

"Why don't we get him back to bed?" Meg suggested helplessly. Christine nodded and reached for Erik's arm to ease him out of the chair.

"No!" Erik pulled his arm from Christine and furrowed his brow. He scrunched his eyes as pain shot through him from the effort of fighting her. He looked toward his organ. "I must write."

"Erik, you're going back to bed," Christine insisted. "You're not well enough to sit at your bench and write music. You must rest and heal."

But Erik shook his head firmly and glared at Christine. "You do not tell me what I can and can not do, my sweet little girl." His voice was like ice as it cut through the strained silence. "Either help me to my organ or I shall make my way there myself."

Christine felt helpless as she and Meg capitulated to Erik's drugged demands. Each girl took an arm and lifted Erik up to a standing position. They helped him stagger to the organ bench, and Erik sank onto the seat with a hiss of pain.

"If you tear your stitches, I shall be very angry with you," Christine warned him, and she received another sharp glare from Erik.

"Do not lecture me, little lamb."

Christine stepped away from the organ bench and stood beside Meg. The blonde girl reached to take Christine's hand and squeezed gently.

"Shall I stay?" Meg asked, "in case you need more help?"

Christine sighed and nodded reluctantly. "Perhaps for a little while."

The girls went and sat in the little chairs at the table, so that Christine could monitor Erik carefully. They sat in silence as Erik began to play, and when he did the chord progression he created was so soulful and mesmerizing that Christine's breath hitched in her throat. He kept playing, his minor chords and the running line of his creation making the air sizzle with music.

"It's beautiful," Meg breathed beside Christine, and all she could do was nod in agreement as Erik crafted the most gorgeous music Christine had ever heard him play. The girls listened in silence for a while, until Meg finally spoke.

"Did he kill Vincent?" she asked, her voice sounding worried. Christine was about to answer her and say yes, but she was jarred when she realized she had never disclosed the butler's name to Meg.

"How do you know his name?" Christine demanded in a low voice, sitting straighter in her chair.

Meg's cheeks flushed red. "I... I read it in the newspaper," she stammered, and Christine narrowed her eyes.

She stood quickly from her chair and glared down at Meg. "You're lying," she accused her, her words tight with anger and anxiety.

Meg did not answer, did not defend herself or deny the charge. She simply stared into Christine's eyes with a sudden flame of hate.

* * *

A/N: I have received very few reviews on the last few chapters, so I'm very concerned that people are no longer reading the story or simply do not like it anymore. Please take a moment and let me know what you think of it so far; I truly appreciate feedback.

* * *

**Furioso**

* * *

"Erik, stop playing, please," Christine called above the din of the organ, and Erik's hands stopped moving. He slowly rotated on the organ bench, curiously staring at the two girls.

"Meg Giry, what do you know?" Christine demanded, glaring at Meg with fire in her eyes.

Meg's eyes burned back just as brightly at Christine, and she hissed, "Nothing. I know nothing."

"Lies!" Erik shouted from the organ bench, for Meg's face was so obviously full of deceit that even in his drugged state, he was able to see right through her.

"How did you know of Vincent?" Christine pressed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Finally Meg lashed out, springing up from her chair and balling her fists at her sides.

"You should thank me!" she yelled. Then, seeing the baffled expression on Christine's face, she continued in a more reasonable voice, "La Sorelli found my mother and me after she went missing. She told me that her lover had gone crazy, that he had killed Philippe and was out for your blood, as well. He wanted the de Chagny money, she said. His plan was to obtain a large amount of cash and flee to Italy. He tried to convince La Sorelli to go with him, to collaborate with him in finding Christine Daaé and eliminating her. La Sorelli ran away from him, and she stayed with my mother and me. We hid her, but one night she disappeared. The next day they fished her out of the Seine, dead. Of course we knew who had done it - the lover she had mentioned, a man she called Vincent. But we had no idea where Vincent was."

Christine's eyes went wide, boggled by the revelations. She gaped at Erik, who looked just as confused. Erik asked,

"Why did you pretend not to know where La Sorelli was?"

Meg's cheeks reddened. "She had a large amount of money that she had been forced by Vincent to withdraw. In exchange for our silence and protection, she offered Maman and me half. Half a million francs. Enough for us to go to America and live for the rest of our lives. When she disappeared from us, she left behind all the cash. So now I've got nearly a million francs."

"Of money that is rightfully mine!" Christine cried. "That money was Raoul's, then passed from Philippe to La Sorelli. But neither of them were supposed to have it. I was supposed to have it, but I disappeared, too, remember?"

Meg gulped heavily. "It is mine," she said quietly, "because I need it to support my child." She placed a hand on her stomach, and for the first time Christine noticed a gentle swelling there. Meg was pregnant.

Christine gasped. "Whose child..." she began, but Meg interrupted her.

"I really, truly do not wish to tell you." Meg shook her head and looked away ashamedly. "Whatever shred of friendship remains between us... I can not..."

"Whose... child... is it?" Christine's voice cut like ice through the air, and her eyes flicked over to Erik, looking for a hint of guilt. She thought the child must be his, but he stared as blankly at Meg as ever.

Meg Giry looked back at Christine with a defensive scowl upon her face. "The baby is Raoul's," she said finally.

Christine felt the room sway precipitously as she started to panic. Her head spun and tried desperately to process the information she had just received. Meg... pregnant with Raoul's child... complicit in a scheme to grab de Chagny money. Raoul had been unfaithful to Christine, and had been seeing Meg. Then he suspected that his death would trigger a chain of unfathomable greed, and he had warned Christine to flee and hide.

And Vincent... Meg had known all along that it was Vincent. Only through her silence would she obtain riches she interpreted to be hers because she bore in her womb a de Chagny child.

Christine felt her ears ring, and before she could scream at Meg in her rage, she collapsed to the ground and everything went black.

* * *

When Christine woke, she was still crumpled on the ground where she had fallen. Wondering absently why she'd been left here, she heard a voice in the distance coming into focus.

"I swear to God in Heaven, Meg Giry, if you ever tell a soul where Christine is, I will find you and kill you. I care nothing for your bastard. I will kill you. Go to England, go to Spain, go anywhere but here. Just leave, and never return to Paris if you value your life."

Christine sat up slowly and saw Erik shoving Meg roughly through the hole in the wall behind his mirror.

"Climb until you see light," Erik ordered, "and push open the grate. You must remember, if you ever return, if you ever speak a word of us, you will pay with your life."

Christine wanted to scream at Erik for letting Meg go, but then it occurred to her that they had few options. Madame Giry knew they were here, and if they detained Meg, her mother was liable to bring a search party down into the bowels of the opera house. No, the only option was to threaten her life and exile her from Paris.

Christine glared as Meg ascended the steps and disappeared into darkness. Christine could hear her sobs even from where she sat on the ground. The fact that Meg was crying only served to make Christine angrier. When at last Meg's voice vanished into the black, Christine herself dissolved into tears.

She had been betrayed by her husband and by the girl who had once been her best friend. She wanted more answers - how long had Meg been with Raoul, and why did she carry out the affair? But Christine knew that no answer she received would ease her misery. In fact, knowing more details of the truth might only serve to augment her pain.

She clawed at her hair, distraught and outraged. Raoul, the man she had loved for two years, had been unfaithful. She knew Meg was not lying about it. Why would she, when that news would only enrage Christine and spur Erik to seek vengeance for her? Christine tried to think of when Raoul would have been seeing Meg. In the two months before he died, Raoul had been spending an increasing number of nights out of the house. Ostensibly, he was off smoking cigars and playing billiards with his wealthy friends. Now Christine knew the truth. He was off with Meg all those nights.

Why would Meg betray Christine in such a way? The only thought Christine had to exonerate Meg of a shred of guilt was that Meg had been desperate. Perhaps she thought that if she gave Raoul a child, he would provide for her. Christine knew he would have done that, too. She sobbed harder, furious to know that Raoul would have preferred a bastard child to no child at all. Christine had proven herself barren to him, so he'd run off and given Meg his child.

And then, when Raoul died and left nothing for Meg, the former dancer had grown desperate, chasing the money down a chain of corpses. Well, fine, Christine thought angrily. She could disappear with money that was rightfully Christine's and go off to raise Raoul's bastard. As long as Christine never saw Meg again... that was what mattered, for Christine knew she would be unable to control her rage if ever she saw Meg's face again.

* * *

A/N: Ermagerd... Sorry this was short, but it's so dense with revelatory information that I wanted to cut it right here. Next chapter will be up promptly as always! Reviews are food.

* * *

**Serenade**

* * *

Christine had been sitting in the copper bathtub, staring blankly ahead, for so long that the bath water was cold.

All of this was completely inconceivable, she thought bitterly. She glanced down and saw that her fingertips had been shriveled by the water, and sighed to herself. She pulled herself from the bathtub and wrapped herself in a Turkish towel, and then she began to cry for the first time in over twenty-four hours.

One week had passed since Meg Giry had revealed her betrayal to Christine, and in that week Christine had hardly spoken a word or shed a tear. She was too shocked, too appalled; her emotions were so great that her mind shut them out entirely to protect her from a complete breakdown.

Now, though, after sitting alone in the bathtub for over an hour, Christine was able to put the pieces together. They painted a disturbing picture in Christine's head, one in which her husband and best friend had both lied to her. The idea that this betrayal was real, and not one of Christine's nightmares, was almost too much to bear. Then there was the matter of the money, and of La Sorelli and Philippe's deaths. Meg Giry had not committed murder, true, but she had been complacent in various schemes to extort the de Chagny family.

Christine thought back to all of the wonderful times she'd shared with Meg. They used to giggle in the darkness of the ballet dormitories, sharing ghost stories and chatting about handsome men. Meg had supported Christine enormously when Christine sang for the opera; Meg had never shown jealousy or resentment. What on Earth had happened to her in the past two years? Now she seemed to be bitter and spiteful toward Christine, going so far as to steal her husband and her inheritance.

In Christine's mind, she could see Meg rearing the bastard she carried in her womb now, that the child would grow up to resemble its father. Why was it that Meg was able to give Raoul a child so easily, when Christine had struggled for years with her fertility?

She hugged the towel around herself more tightly and sobbed beside the bathtub, heaving with gasps and shuddering from the cold. Erik peeked his head into the space curiously and cautiously, looking around the polished wardrobe with questioning eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm fine," Christine insisted. "I'll be fine. You should go lie down."

For the past week, Erik had spent most of his time in his old little bed, healing from his stab wound. Christine saw him mostly to clean the wound and change his bandages, as well as to bring him food. The time in bed had been beneficial to Erik; the wound was healing nicely and day by day he was gaining back his strength and color.

"I'm very tired of lying down," Erik informed Christine, his fingers gripping the wardrobe as he peered around it. "I thought I might play my organ for a while."

He seemed to be circuitously asking Christine for permission to make noise in the space. It had, indeed, become very quiet in the space over the past week. Christine had spoken only when she needed to do so, and Erik spoke to her in a quiet and soft voice whenever he responded.

"I was wondering if you might join me to eat supper at the table," Erik continued, and Christine saw the nervousness in his face as his eyes pleaded with her.

Christine did not wish to reject him, for she knew he loved her dearly and was walking on eggshells because of her distress. This was the boldest suggestion of intimacy that Erik had given her in a week – to sit beside him at a table and eat together. There had been no kisses, no touching beyond medical care. The extent of Christine's depression was starting to wear on both of them. She had finally decided to take a bath when she realized she had done nothing besides reading, eating, and staring blankly for seven days. It had honestly simply been a change of pace for her. She could not imagine how bored Erik must have been by that point, always alone in his bed and unable to play his music or communicate with another human being effectively.

So Christine just nodded at Erik, reluctantly agreeing to his proposition of supper together.

"I'm afraid all we have left is bread, cheese, and wine," Erik informed her, wincing a bit from standing for so long.

The issue of getting supplies had not yet been addressed between them, but it was true that their stores were running low. Obviously, Meg Giry would no longer be bringing them anything, and Christine had no idea where Madame Giry was or where her allegiances lay.

"Tomorrow night, I shall dress as plainly as I can and go above ground for supplies," she said softly, shivering as cold water evaporated from her skin.

"No." Erik shook his head firmly. "I will go. I'm well enough now to go. We can not risk you being recognized."

Christine nodded sadly, realizing that he was right and that they had little in the way of choice.

"Let me put on a nightgown and robe, and I shall be at the table shortly," Christine promised. Erik nodded, realizing that she wanted privacy, and disappeared behind the wardrobe. Christine heard his shuffling footsteps walking away. She let the towel fall from her body and crumple on the floor, and she pulled a nightgown from her wardrobe. It was simple, a basic cotton shift construction, and Christine still shivered from the cold beneath the thin material. She pulled a heavy velvet robe around herself and cinched the waist, and she padded out to the area where the table sat beside the lake.

She was struck by how dark it was; Erik had not been lighting dozens of candles at once as he had before suffering his injury. Instead, the only illumination in the space was from a three-tiered brass candelabrum on the little table.

Erik was already seated, but when he saw Christine, he stood slowly and with effort. She saw in the dim light that he had dressed formally for their meal together. He had on a white dress shirt and bowtie, a black silk waistcoat, and formal tailcoat and trousers. He wore his white mask, which was no longer covered in blood spatter.

"I feel a bit underdressed," Christine admitted shyly when Erik pulled out her chair for her.

"You are perfectly lovely, as always," Erik reassured her, gently helping her scoot her chair toward the table. He sat, cringing and holding his abdomen as he did.

"How is your pain?" Christine asked politely, noticing the array of bread and cheese on the table, as well as two goblets filled with red wine.

"I am much improved," Erik confirmed. There was a silence then as he broke the bread and gave the larger half to Christine. He began to cut the block of cheese before him, and he served her a few slices. "A paltry feast, I know, but I simply needed to sit with you," he said as he took a small sip from his wine glass. "I needed to ensure that you are truly all right."

Christine felt her eyes well again, though she was nearly out of tears to cry. She looked away from Erik, down at her plate, and nodded meekly. "What's done is done," she said softly, "and Raoul is not here for me to be angry at him. I am very alone in the world… my own husband and friend betrayed me, and I have nothing…"

Her voice broke and no more words came. She knew she ought not cry about this in front of Erik. After all, it had been she who had chosen Raoul over him two years ago, breaking his heart and leaving him _truly_ alone. She looked up at him apologetically and saw nothing but pity in his eyes.

Erik reached for her hand, very gently bringing her knuckles to his lips. "You are not alone," he promised, "for I am here with you and I shall never leave you. No one else in this world could ever make me happy, Christine. You and I are all the other has now."

Christine gulped when she realized that was true. She had Erik and he had her, and they were on their own – together.

"I'm glad he's dead," Christine said suddenly, shocking herself with her cruel words. Realizing the horrific nature of what she'd said, she took a large swig of wine and a bite of bread to keep herself from speaking any more. Erik looked alarmed at her words, but he said,

"As am I."

"Of course _you_ are," Christine said once she'd swallowed her bread, and Erik looked a bit offended at that. "I never thought I would say I'm happy to be a widow, but I'd rather be a widow than a deceived wife."

"If you were _my_ wife, I would never deceive you," Erik said very quietly, and Christine was not sure she'd heard him correctly.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. Of course he wanted to marry her. He'd made her put on a wedding dress two years ago, after all; he'd given her a ring and had wanted to take her to the Madeleine Chapel to be married in the eyes of God and the law.

"I can't marry you, Erik," Christine said sadly, her eyes remorseful.

Erik nodded and gulped. "I know. You made that clear when you gave me back this."

He pulled something from his jacket pocket, and Christine saw it shimmer in the dim candlelight. It was the ring he'd given her two years ago, and she wondered how long he'd had it for her before that night. He still had it now, she marveled. He could have pawned it or sold it for a good deal of money, but instead he still had it.

"You kept it," Christine breathed. She glanced down at her left hand. She'd taken her wedding ring off the day she'd learned of Raoul's betrayal, and now her hand was bare. Erik nodded, and Christine said hurriedly, "It's not that I do not want to marry you, Erik. It's that…well, how would we get a priest to marry us? The logistics of a wedding do not exactly make sense."

Erik nodded again, knowingly, and put the ring down on the table between them. "I would have you as my wife in _our_ eyes," he murmured. "If you would have me as your loving, devoted, and loyal husband."

Christine could scarcely breathe. She should not be surprised that he was doing this. Two years ago he'd tried to _force_ her into marriage; it made no sense that he would have completely abandoned the notion. Now, though, he offered her nothing but free will. She stared at the ring between them, and, before she could have a rational thought on the matter, she picked the ring up and slipped it onto her left hand.

"Of course I will have you," she said softly, reaching to cover his hand with hers. The ring glistened on her finger, and Erik looked very emotional as he gazed at her hand.

"I love you very, very much, Christine," he promised, meeting her eyes, "and I will do everything I can to protect you for as long as I live. I will not just protect your life. I will protect your spirit and your happiness, and I would be the most faithful and dedicated husband there ever was. I promise you that."

"You _will_ be all of that," Christine corrected him, "for I think of you now as my husband. I do not care about priests and clerks and the general public. All that matters now is us, here, and you are my husband in my heart."

She rose slowly from her chair and stood beside him. She leaned down and pressed her lips against his, sealing their symbolic unification with a kiss. She made a move to stand, but Erik caught her face in his hands and held her against his mouth. He peeked his tongue between her lips cautiously, and then Christine was lost in his kiss as he explored her mouth.

At last they parted, and Erik's eyes glistened with happiness.

"I will love you until the day I die, and for all the ages after that," Christine vowed. Erik smiled coyly up at her, and Christine thought he looked happier than she'd ever seen a man look.

"Soon, when I am done healing, I shall make love to you more sweetly than has ever been done, and we shall consummate our union," he promised.

Christine nodded with a little smile, and she began trying to think of ways to expedite Erik's recovery. She knew there would be no more reticence in her mind and heart about her love for Erik. He was all she had now.

* * *

**Arioso**

* * *

The wait for Erik's wound to heal felt absolutely interminable. Over the next week, Christine tried to be patient, but she found herself unable to think properly at some points. The only thoughts coursing through her mind were of Erik, and he haunted her dreams even though he was only a few feet away.

He'd only left her one time in the past week, and that was to bring supplies home. Christine had felt his absence keenly the entire time he was gone, and she realized that the gravity drawing her to him was more powerful than she had thought it to be.

He seemed to be healing decently well; the wound was sealed shut and one day, Christine delicately pulled out the stitches. She was extraordinarily proud of her own ability to do so, and had grinned triumphantly at Erik when she pulled out the very last stitch.

The following night, Christine was singing while he played the organ, and she yawned halfway through an aria. Erik stopped playing and looked at her curiously.

"I'm very tired," Christine said apologetically. "I had difficulty sleeping last night and it's getting late."

Erik nodded his understanding and began to put his sheet music away. "Good night, then," he said gently. "I hope you have an easier time sleeping tonight. Your voice needs rest, anyway."

Christine smiled meekly at him while he put the music away. She slid her fingers along the organ as if she were caressing it, and she asked lightly,

"How are you feeling, Erik?"

He did not seem to understand the implication of her question at first, or the suggestion behind it, for he answered innocently, "I'm feeling much better, thank you. You've been an excellent nurse."

Christine put her lips in a flat line, frustrated that he'd not read between the lines of her words. She stared at him with disappointed eyes as he filed the music and turned to face her.

"What's wrong?" Erik asked, seeing the expression upon her face. His brow furrowed and he reached out to place his hand over Christine's upon the organ. His fingertips stroked the back of her hand slowly, sending shivers up Christine's spine. _What's wrong?_ A voice screamed inside her head, _what do you __**think**__ is wrong, you fool?_

She sighed deeply and chewed her bottom lip. "I think I might sleep better if you were beside me," she suggested. "I know your old bed has served as a hospital cot for several weeks now, but I miss having you next to me at night."

Erik smiled gently and nodded. "Of course," he said. "I ought to sleep beside my wife."

Christine was pleasantly surprised that he still thought of her that way, as his wife. Their 'wedding' had been so informal and unofficial that Christine had worried Erik might think it was a little game they'd been playing. Instead, over the past week, he seemed to take the notion of marriage very seriously. He doted upon Christine even though he was the injured one, and he kissed her goodnight every evening. He told her that he loved her every single day, just in case she'd forgotten. Christine liked to think of him as her husband, if for no other reason than it solidified and legitimized their intimacy. She'd already had one grand wedding in her life, and she did not need another. What she needed was a spouse who loved her enough to be faithful and kind.

Erik was proving to be the perfect husband – aside from the fact that he was not picking up on Christine's innuendo at the moment.

"Shall we go to bed, then?" Christine suggested finally, deciding she would have to express her desires to Erik more directly. Erik nodded and followed her to her wardrobe. Christine hung her velvet robe inside of it and saw out of her peripheral vision as Erik stripped off his waistcoat and shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He stood beside her in his ankle-length cotton drawers, and he wordlessly folded his clothing and set it inside the wardrobe so he could dress again in the morning.

Christine slithered between the sheets and watched Erik climb into bed beside her. He lay very still upon his back after he got comfortable, and he stared up at the ceiling.

"Sleep well, Christine," he murmured as she snuffed out the candelabra beside the bed and plunged them into darkness.

Christine sighed in frustration, lying on her side facing Erik for a good five minutes before she stirred. She could hear him breathing, slow and steady, and could feel warmth radiating from him. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she slipped her arm over his torso and slid over to hover her face above his.

She dipped to kiss him, and she felt his lips open in warm reception. She moaned a bit into his mouth as he ensnared her tongue and sucked gently upon it. He let her go just enough to nibble upon her bottom lip and sweep his tongue over the roof of her mouth. Christine moaned again, a bit more insistently this time.

"So, Erik," she panted when they parted at last, "How are you feeling?"

"Ohh…" Erik's voice sounded as though he'd just had a revelation and realized that, for the better part of the evening, Christine had been trying to engage him in a very specific type of activity. "I'm better. Much, much better," he purred, his hand reaching up to stroke Christine's décolleté teasingly.

Christine tried to think of what they might do that would not cause him pain or danger. He was, after all, still in recovery, despite both of their impatience. She thought perhaps she might ride him while he lay upon his back, but she worried that she would move too vigorously and cause him to stretch the healing wound. Then she thought that she could please him in another manner, but thought back to Erik's negative reaction toward that suggestion a few weeks earlier.

"Erik," she said very gently, "I don't want to hurt you."

"Just let me touch you, then," he suggested.

"And in return?" Christine asked in a suggestive voice.

"I need nothing in return," Erik assured her. Christine narrowed her eyes in the darkness, for it had been Erik who had insisted that pleasure must be mutual.

"_Please_ let me use my mouth on you, Erik," she begged. "You can lie here while I do. I won't be on my knees. I _want_ to do it."

Erik seemed to think about it for a long moment in silence, and then at last he whispered, "I think I would enjoy that very much. Thank you."

_'Ladies first' be damned_, Christine thought to herself. She wanted to please him first, for she knew it would be a very erotic experience, and anticipation was half the fun, anyway.

She peeled back the blankets covering Erik and brushed her fingers over the taut muscles in his torso, feeling him shiver beneath her touch. Christine ghosted her way down to his drawers, and Erik made a low, guttural sound at the feel of her delicate fingers on him. Christine leaned down to kiss him again, gently but passionately dancing her tongue around his mouth as her hand stroked him through the cotton material. Erik's breath hitched as she kissed him, and soon he was panting so erratically through his nose that Christine pulled away in order for him to breathe more easily. He gasped a little as she moved her mouth to his neck, nipping and sucking gently upon the sensitive flesh below his ear. Her free hand reached up to stroke his face, feeling the hollows and scars on his cheek against her skin.

Finally, Christine sat up and set to work unbuttoning Erik's drawers. She could not see, for it was so dark, and she relied entirely on her sense of touch to guide her. The blindness only served to turn both of them on. Erik groaned a bit into the darkness when Christine pulled him from his drawers, and Christine felt moisture blossoming between her legs at the feel of his erection in her hand.

She moved very slowly and quietly until her lips touched the tip of his cock, and she parted them enough to slide him into her mouth. Erik's reaction was powerful and immediate. He bucked his hips upward and cried out at the sensation of her warm, wet mouth enveloping him. Christine swept her tongue around his tip and plunged herself onto him, feeling his tip hit the back of her throat. She suppressed the urge to gag and instead made swallowing motions with her throat to stimulate him.

"Ahh! Christine…!" His voice cut desperately through the darkness in a hollow growl, ripped from somewhere deep inside his chest.

Christine smiled to herself as she pulled him in and out of her mouth, swirling her hand around his lubricated shaft and tip. She tasted the bitter flavor of the first hints of fluid, indicating his intense arousal. She began to move more quickly and deliberately on him, sucking and swallowing him as deeply as she could and giving plenty of attention to his tip.

Suddenly she heard him snarl urgently and pulled her off of him. Christine at first thought he was simply trying not to finish in her mouth; that he thought to do so would be uncouth and rude. That would be like Erik, she thought. But then she felt the mattress shift and felt his hands upon her, roughly pulling her over to straddle him.

"Please, Christine," he gasped, sounding as though he was not at all in control of himself. Christine grinned in the darkness, glad he could not see how amused she was by the power she wielded over him.

His fingers were pushing her nightgown skirt up around her waist, and then he was aiming blindly to push into her. At last, Christine sank down upon him and hissed at the feel of him inside her so deeply and fully. Erik moaned anxiously and urged Christine to move atop him, his hands firmly grasping her hips and moving her up and down.

Christine did move, though she was careful not to be too vigorous, as she was desperately concerned with hurting Erik. She rocked gently up and down, making figure-eight motions with her hips as she did. His fingers tightened their grip on her hips, so strongly that Christine thought she would have bruises there in the shapes of his hands. She dragged one of his hands from her hip and moved his fingers toward her entrance. Erik played with her there, rubbing her wet ingress until she cried out in delicious agony.

Suddenly, Christine felt Erik pull her hard against him, and she yelped at how deeply he pushed himself into her. Erik growled loudly.

"My _God_, Christine!" he cried, and Christine felt his warm fluid flowing into her body. She moaned and felt herself contracting against him, spurred to her own completion by the feel and sound of him finishing.

She tore his hand from her entrance, for it was hypersensitive now, and she slid off of him and collapsed onto the pillow beside him. The only sounds in the pitch black space were of both of them catching their breath. Christine panted and felt her heart racing, and she tried to calm herself. Beside her, Erik grew quiet at last, and Christine felt his lips upon her cheek. His hand reached around to cup her jaw and stroke the skin there gently, and Erik planted a series of delicate, simple kisses upon Christine's face.

Then he whispered into her ear, and the feel and sound of his words made Christine gasp with joy.

"Now," he informed her, "Now you are truly my wife."


	3. Chapter 3

**Maestro**

* * *

_Christine rose from the bed and glanced back to see that Erik was still asleep. She lit a candelabrum and began walking through the deep darkness of the space, toward Erik's full-length mirror. Trying to move as quietly as a mouse, she reached the mirror and pulled it back gently. Then, seizing her candelabrum, she began walking into the tunnel beyond._

_She ascended the stairs, quickly padding up them in her slippered feet, until she saw light above her. She was drawn to it like a moth to flame, and she climbed faster and faster until she was taking the steps two at a time. At last she reached the grate at the top, and she waited until there was silence above her to move. Then she pushed the grate as hard as she could, grunting a bit at its weight. Finally, the grate lifted and she managed to push it aside._

_And then she was stuck, for Christine had no idea how she was supposed to make her way through the grate. It was directly above her, and the walls were too far away to use as leverage in climbing. She reached up and put her hands and the edge and pulled as hard as she could. She managed to heave her body up until her chin peeked above the surface, but her arms shook fiercely and she was not strong enough to lift herself further. In the instant that her face was above ground, she saw two people walking in the direction of the grate on the sidewalk._

_It was Raoul and Meg._

_How could this be? Raoul was dead; Christine herself had watched him being buried. She'd watched him die! Yet, here he was, moseying through the park hand-in-hand with a visibly pregnant Meg. Christine sank back down below the ground and panted from shock and exertion. She could not think clearly enough to move the grate back closed, for all her mind could process was that she'd seen Raoul, alive and well, with Meg._

_The light above her darkened and Christine glanced up anxiously to see a face silhouetted against the bright sunlight. She blinked a few times until she realized it was Raoul._

_"You really ought to wake up, Christine," he said in an unkind voice. Meg peered curiously around his shoulder. "Your husband will worry over you."_

_Christine narrowed her eyes, trying to digest his words. Wake up? Wouldn't that mean…_

_She began to cry then, for she was so intensely confused. Above her, Raoul laughed under his breath and turned to Meg._

_"She used to cry about everything," he said snidely to the mother of his child._

_Christine stomped her foot and sobbed. "Why, Raoul?"_

"Christine! Christine, wake up!"

She felt herself being shaken vigorously, then, and the image of Raoul and Meg disappeared from her mind as quickly as it had appeared. Christine cracked her eyes and felt tears flowing from them, and she gasped for air.

"Christine!" Erik's voice was frantic beside her. "Are you all right?"

She rolled over slowly to see Erik staring at her with worry in his eyes. She began to cry harder, for she saw love in his eyes, too, and she knew that she was where she was supposed to be.

Erik reached to gather Christine closer to him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "Shh…" he said soothingly. "Don't cry, Christine. Whatever it was, it was only a dream. I'm here. I've got you now."

Christine leaned up and put a kiss on Erik's jaw, flicking her eyes up to see his ruined cheek. "Please…" she began, though she wasn't sure what she was begging for. Comfort? Love? He was trying to give her those things already. She couldn't put her finger on what she wanted from him.

He seemed to think he knew exactly what she wanted, though, as he reached down to sweep his hands over her form. He gripped and fondled her as his hands passed her breasts, hips, and thighs.

"I'm here," he said again. "He's gone. I won't let anything happen to you."

_He's gone,_ Erik had said, and Christine realized she must have sobbed Raoul's name in her dream.

She whispered fervently into Erik's neck, "I love you," and he sighed softly in response.

"You know I love you more than life itself," he replied, his hands gently coursing their way back up to her face.

Christine pulled away from him and sat up slowly. She nodded her thanks at Erik and gradually moved from the bed, walking with aching limbs toward her wardrobe.

She pulled her nightgown up and off, completely comfortable with baring her body to him, and hung it in the wardrobe. She reached for her chemise, drawers, and corset. She slid on the drawers and slipped the chemise over her head, and then wrapped herself in her corset. She fastened the busk in the front and reached behind her back, crisscrossing the long ties and bringing them to the front. She pulled hard a few times until she felt herself locked into the garment, and then she tied the strings around her waist and tucked them under the hook at the bottom of the corset.

She looked back toward Erik and smiled gently at him. He was watching her with rapt attention, and his pupils looked a bit dilated. Christine chuckled self-consciously.

"I did not realize that dressing myself was such an interesting activity," she teased him, and Erik grinned crookedly at her. He said nothing, but Christine could see from the heaving of his chest that his breath was shallow and quick, and the fire in his eyes glistened more brightly.

Christine was not exactly in the mood for anything sexual this morning. She was still rather upset by her nightmare, and found herself unable to shake a feeling of unease that haunted her mind.

Eventually, she was fully dressed, and she glanced again at Erik while she slipped on shoes. He looked serene; he looked happy, and Christine narrowed her eyes at him.

"What is it?" she demanded, as though something were wrong with the affectionate way he was staring at her.

"It's nothing," Erik answered quietly, looking away sheepishly.

"What's wrong?" Christine pressed, walking to his side of the bed and sitting carefully upon the edge. Erik took her hand in his and said,

"It's just… for _years_, Christine, I wanted you. Then I thought I had you, and I lost you to another man. Now I think I've got you here with me forever, and it seems too good to be true."

Christine felt butterflies in her stomach at his words. She was very flattered, and she murmured with downcast eyes, "It's me who's too lucky, Erik. You took me back after I was awful to you. You love me more than anybody's ever been loved. I… I'm very grateful to you."

She looked up, her eyes glossy with tears, and met Erik's gaze. He sat up slowly and slinked his arms around her torso. The warmth of his bare chest radiated even through the material of Christine's dress, and she sighed happily.

"You do have me forever," she promised. "It should have always been you, Erik."

"The past doesn't matter now," he insisted. "All that matters is that you are my wife, and I shall treasure you always."

* * *

Christine watched as Erik proceeded into the tunnel behind the mirror two weeks later, quickly thrust back into her nightmare about seeing Raoul. This was how Erik had to come and go now, for punting the boat was still too strenuous for him. He disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, and Christine was roiled with anxiety. What if he was caught? What if someone attacked him?

He had gone to get quills and ink and paper, because he was in a writing spree and had used up all of his staff paper in the past few days. He was crafting a new opera; one he said would be even better than _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was to be called "The Difficult Choice." The plot was vaguely autobiographical. In it, the main female character, called Louise, was forced by circumstance to choose between two men she loves, one poor and one rich. She selfishly chose the rich man, but was extremely unhappy with him. She went back to the poor man she'd rejected, declaring her love for him and begging him to take her back. Unfortunately, the poor man had already married a peasant girl, and Louise was forced to live with the choices she had made. The rich man beat her when she walks in on him with his lover, and Louise fled to the house of the poor man. He told her he loved her in return, but that he could not marry her. In desperation, Louise drank a large amount of laudanum and fell asleep on the poor man's doorstep. She never woke again, and the poor man found her dead outside his door.

In the aria of act three, Louise was to sing plaintively of her love for the poor man, and her sadness at his marriage. The aria was filled with tragic chord progressions, and each time Christine sang it in practice with Erik, she felt her emotions getting the best of her. She finally begged Erik not to make her sing it anymore, and he'd worked on other parts of the opera instead.

Now he was out of paper, and ink, and usable quills, because he'd been writing so furiously. Christine read books as he carried out his shopping above ground, but she was extraordinarily distracted. She thought of his opera, of how heartbreaking and realistic it was, and she sighed to herself. For two weeks he had labored at it, making significant progress every day. Time passed more quickly when she was busy singing all day for him. Christine could scarcely believe that an entire month had passed since she had learned of Meg and Raoul's betrayal.

She was suddenly jarred out of her reverie by a realization that made her heart race. A month. She began counting the days furiously, and when she came up with a total of thirty-three days since Meg left, she began to shake.

She was late on her cycle; she should have started to bleed five days earlier. She'd not been paying attention to that, for she'd been so preoccupied with Erik's work that the date had been mostly lost on her. They'd made love probably five times in the middle of the month, in the days after her nightmare. Christine felt abruptly queasy as the truth hit her like a sack of bricks.

Perhaps he'd been trying for this deliberately. Perhaps she had, too, without knowing that she was doing so. For years, she had been barren, and she had started to give up all hope of ever having a child.

But to have a child _down here_, in hiding, in shadows… How on Earth was Christine to do it? And having a child would demolish the intimacy she shared with Erik.

Well, maybe it would, Christine thought to herself. She remembered Erik's tearful reaction to finding out that she had not been pregnant the month before. It seemed obvious that he wanted a child with her.

Christine paced anxiously around, waiting for Erik to come back down the stairs. She waited for several hours, and in all that time, she did not stop moving around anxiously. She cried until she was out of tears, until her face looked hideously red and puffy in the mirror.

Finally, she heard Erik's footsteps scuffing the stone floor inside the tunnel, and she wrung her hands apprehensively as he approached. He emerged from the darkness with his purchases bundled in brown paper, tucked under his arm. He was smiling gently when he first emerged, but his smile vanished when he saw that Christine had cried herself into a terrible state.

"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously, pulling the mirror back into its spot so that it covered the entry to the tunnel.

"Will you come and sit down with me at the table?" Christine asked him, her voice quavering.

Erik eyed her with suspicion and worry. "Of course I will," he replied. "Why?"

Christine gulped heavily and tried to keep her eyes on his. "I… I've got something to tell you."

* * *

**Battaglia**

* * *

Christine lowered herself shakily into the chair that Erik pulled out for her. She licked her lips anxiously as Erik sat beside her, placed his hand over hers, and looked at her with curious eyes. He wore his mask, and for some reason that made it more difficult for Christine to say what she needed to say.

Erik raised his eyebrows expectantly at her and finally asked gently, "What's wrong, Christine?"

Christine tried to steel herself against her emotions. She took a trembling breath as she steadied herself.

"I am… with child," she said finally, unable to look at Erik.

He said nothing for a very long moment, and she flicked her eyes up to see that his were glistening with tears. She could not read the sentiments on his wide-eyed expression, other than to discern that he was very surprised.

"Are you very angry?" Christine asked worriedly. Erik furrowed his brow at her and shook his head vehemently. He squeezed her hand gently.

"Angry?" he said in disbelief. "Christine, this news is the most wonderful… the most welcome… I am not angry. I am delighted."

Christine felt relief wash over her like a mighty wave, and she felt her lips curl into a smile.

"Are you very certain?" Erik asked her. Christine nodded.

"There is no other reasonable explanation," she said obliquely. "The timing is right."

"In more ways than one." Erik grinned broadly at her. She watched a happy tear course down his cheek. "I… I don't know what to say," he breathed.

"Neither do I," she answered, still feeling confused, but elated at his reaction. "I was so worried, Erik. I thought you would hate me for this."

Erik shook his head again. "I love you more than ever." He rose from his chair and moved slowly to stand behind Christine. He rubbed her shoulders gently and leaned down, planting soft kisses on her neck and cheek. Christine turned her head slightly and his lips landed softly against hers in a delicate, affectionate kiss.

"Promise me one thing," he whispered into Christine's ear then, and she nodded.

"Anything."

"If the child… is like me… if the baby has some sort of deformity, any kind of defect… promise me you will love the child anyway." His breath hitched a bit in his throat, and Christine sensed that he was holding back tears. She did not try so hard, allowing a tear to tumble from her eye. She looked deeply into his glistening gaze and nodded determinedly.

"I will love _both_ of you," she promised firmly, "No matter what."

Erik gave her a weak little smile and moved to sit back down. As he lowered himself into his chair, he sighed a bit and said, "I do not wish to detract attention from this wondrous news, but, alas, I have some relatively unpleasant information that I must share with you."

Christine felt her heart sink. "What is it?" she asked worriedly.

"I found her… Madame Giry," Erik pronounced carefully, folding his hands on the table. "I followed her upstairs to her garret room, and I confronted her. I asked her where Meg's gone, why she deceived us."

"And? What did she say?" Christine demanded, her voice now filled with disgust.

"She says that Meg has gone to America, and that she, Madame Giry, is to follow in a week's time. She claims to have done nothing wrong, but when I pointed out that your money had been embezzled and stolen, she rather spat at me, 'That girl. That Christine. So perfect in your eyes, Erik, but look at what she did to you! She ran off with the richest man she could find. She deserved what she got.'"

Christine narrowed her eyes, feeling enraged. "Then what happened?" she asked warily.

"She threatened to send the police down here."

Christine's eyes went wide with fear and apprehension. She looked nervously around as if a gendarme would appear out of thin air. She clutched at Erik's hand and shook her head vigorously.

"How do we know she will not do it?" Christine pressed. "She could promise not to, but of course, right before she gets on the ship, she might notify the police that I'm down here! She's the only one in France who knows, and she despises me, apparently."

She began to panic then, feeling her heart race and her breath grow shallow and quick with anxiety. Her head spun. There was no way to stop Madame Giry from getting Christine arrested and Erik… well, it would likely be worse than arrest for him.

"I know," Erik said very quietly after a moment. "She was the only one in France who knew."

Suddenly Christine's blood ran cold in her veins and her eyes focused on Erik's. "She _was_?" she asked flatly, inquiring as to his use of the past tense.

Erik licked his lips nervously and nodded minutely. "I've done something of which I am not terribly proud, Christine. I promise it was to protect you. I could not risk her betraying us in such a way."

Christine's eyes went wide with horror. "You… you've _killed_ her?" she gasped, choking out the words.

Erik looked down at his hands and nodded ashamedly. "I had no choice," he insisted.

"You could have… you could…" Christine tried desperately to think of some way Erik could have kept her safe and left Madame Giry alive. She could think of none. It was true that Christine now felt enormous animosity toward both Girys for being blameworthy in infidelity and extortion for which Christine suffered. Nonetheless, the elder woman had been her mentor, her teacher, her caretaker, for ten years of her life. It was as if Erik had murdered Christine's mother. No matter how much Christine hated the woman, there _had_ to have been some way for her to be safe and for Madame Giry to be alive. But Christine could think of no way that such a scenario would come to pass. Erik was right. He'd had very little choice. He'd made the only decision that he felt he could make, and that was to protect Christine, and himself.

Now Christine better understood Erik's happy but measured reaction to news of her pregnancy. This must have been gnawing at his mind the entire while that he'd been smiling, for now he shook with emotion as he sat beside Christine.

"She… she rescued me," Erik said. "I do not know why she changed… I suppose she was never the warmest figure, but to drive me to this? She left me no option, Christine. As I stood in her room, I knew I could either kill her or be guilty of allowing harm to come to you. And, to our child, as I now know. I am your husband, Christine; I had no choice!"

He kept repeating that fact, that he'd had no alternative, over and over as if it would erase the shame he felt. Christine did not have any idea what to say to him. She knew that he had saved their own lives tonight in doing what he'd done. By eliminating the only possibility of being discovered by the authorities, he had ensured Christine's safety and freedom from imprisonment, or worse. They had no way of knowing whether or not Madame Giry would have gone to the police. The fact was that as soon as she had threatened to do so, she had signed her own death warrant. Erik was not a man to be threatened.

"How did… how did she die?" Christine asked, cringing at the scenarios running through her head.

"I broke her neck. She died immediately. No pain," he promised, and Christine disturbed herself by nodding in a relieved fashion. "Her last word as I rushed toward her was my name. 'No, Erik,' she said." Erik looked down at his hands again, his eyes full of shame.

"Raoul's last word was my name," Christine pointed out, "and, as it turns out, he was rather wicked himself."

She did not know what to say beyond that; it was more an observation than any sort of explanation or advice.

She and Erik sat in complete silence for the next ten minutes, both of them staring at the flames of the candelabrum in the middle of the table. Christine's gut roiled with confused emotion. Today had been so up and down, back and forth, that she could not easily determine how she felt. She'd first been distraught over her pregnancy, then relieved and happy because of Erik's reaction. Then there was the news of Madame Giry, and Christine felt a melancholic mix of liberation and grief.

Christine was so confused that she could not even cry, because to do so would be to lean toward one emotion, and she was truly a mental bundle of bewilderment. Erik seemed to be experiencing a similar phenomenon; as he stared deeply into the flames on the table, his eyes were glazed and blank, and his lips neither frowned nor smiled, but sat in an apathetic line.

Finally, Christine spoke. "I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?" Erik asked, still staring at the candelabrum.

"For everything. I'm sorry that you have to kill people to protect me. I'm sorry that I took your oldest friend from you. I'm sorry I'm pregnant. I'm sorry -"

Suddenly Erik glared at Christine. "Don't ever tell me you're sorry because of the child."

His reaction was so strong that Christine was rather taken aback. She had not expected him to latch onto the concept of fatherhood so quickly and clearly. Perhaps it was not easy for him to do so, but he was already protective of his offspring and his wife.

"We should leave," Christine said suddenly. Erik looked confused.

"And where would we go?" he demanded.

"I don't know. London, Venice… somewhere where no one knows us, where we can legally be married…"

"You would have to use a false name," he pointed out, "and I have no last name at all. I have something of notoriety built up now, though of course in Venice no one would think it strange to see a man in a mask. Life there is a constant masquerade."

"Then let's go there," Christine insisted. "I want to raise my child in the sunlight, Erik. I want to be free of the fear of arrest; I want no one to know who I am."

"And what would we do there?" Erik inquired, cocking his eyebrow.

"Your compositions could be staged, Erik, by one of many Italian opera houses. Your work would come to life. We would be happy, and we would be free." Christine stared off beyond Erik, seeing in her mind's eye a vivid image of her holding a baby, standing beside Erik on the Rialto Bridge.

But Erik shook his head no. "I have no idea how we would get you there," he said sadly. "How am I to get you on a train without you being recognized? All of Paris has seen your face multiple times in the newspapers."

"That part is easy," Christine said smoothly. Erik stared curiously at her, and she smiled a bit as she suggested, "Make me a mask."

* * *

**Andante**

* * *

"What do you think?"

Erik turned Christine's body around so that she faced the full-length mirror. Christine gasped and brought her fingers to her face.

"It's perfect," she breathed.

The mask that Erik had made for her was quintessentially Venetian, and it hid just enough of Christine's face that it could be seen as decorative in nature while still disguising her identity.

It was black velvet, and it covered just the top half of Christine's face. Around the perimeter of the mask, there was a trim of black silk ribbon, the same ribbon that tied behind the back of the head. From the left side of the mask, a plume of black feathers sprouted upwards, creating a dramatic but decorative appearance. Christine's face was just concealed enough for her to feel comfortable in the charade that she and Erik had worked out over the course of the last week.

They would be a couple traveling by train to Venice, so enthusiastic about the masked lifestyle in the Italian city that they already wore their costumes. Certainly the general public might perceive them as insane, but it would not be their first instinct to call the police on the couple. Christine was willing to build her safety upon the bedrock of apparent insanity.

They would be traveling to Venice for the Carnival, which was to begin in one week's time. They already had tickets booked in a sleeper car on an overnight train from Paris to Milan. From Milan, there would be a daytime train to Venice.

They would not bring much with them, for it had to appear that they were on holiday and not permanently moving. Christine would bring just one small wicker Moynat trunk, filled with a few dresses and a portion of the couple's supply of cash. Erik, for his part, would be bringing a simple leather suitcase, with two spare suits inside and more of the cash. He would have a leather folio, containing his opera _The Difficult Choice_. They would carry a carpetbag aboard the train, as well, containing most of the money and a few toiletries.

It was imperative that they get to the train station as surreptitiously as possible, so that they stood less chance of being apprehended before leaving Paris. To that end, Erik took their luggage one piece at a time to the train station at night. Christine asked him where he was hiding it all, and he promised her that it was being safely kept in storage by an acquaintance that worked at the station.

At last the night came in which they were to leave, and Erik gave Christine her beautiful black mask like it was a special gift. _Now I am like him, _Christine thought. _Hiding my face, hiding from the world in plain sight._ The thought struck her as rather melancholy as she gazed at herself in the long mirror. Perhaps, she reasoned, they had been brought closer together by a mutual understanding of what it meant to hide out of necessity. Perhaps they were connected strongly by a shared need for freedom. In any case, Christine finally felt that she understood Erik a bit better, for her own experience had given her a peek inside his mind and soul.

They left Erik's underground home at midnight. Christine took a final look around as she stood in front of his full-length mirror, the one that hid the tunnel to the outside world.

She was more sad and nostalgic than she had expected to be. Here was where she'd first seen his true face. Here was where he'd tried to get her to marry him, and here was where she did that of her own accord. Here was where they'd made love for the first time and many times since, and here was where she'd conceived their child. There were a great deal of memories in this place, many packed tightly into the span of only a few months. Christine had absolutely no idea when, or if, she would ever see this home again.

"Come, Christine," she heard Erik's soothing voice say behind her. "We should go."

She reluctantly turned her head away, toward the mirror, and saw that Erik had pushed it aside. Before them, the dark tunnel awaited. Christine took Erik's hand and followed him into the darkness. They walked steadfastly ahead until they reached the winding stairs, at which point Erik whispered to Christine in the darkness, "Step up slowly. Don't let go of my hand. I've got you."

His voice was so smooth, so comforting, that Christine momentarily forgot her fear and apprehension, and she willingly followed him where he led her. They reached the top of the stairs at last, though Christine could only tell they had because of the sight of the full moon above them. Erik pushed open the grate after listening for a while, and he pulled himself up using the sides of the opening. Christine watched in wonder as he hauled his entire body up in one swing, grunting a bit from the exertion. Christine wondered if it didn't hurt his still-healing wound to do so.

She saw the dark silhouette of his face in the opening and heard him whisper, "Reach up and grab my arms."

She did, hesitantly taking hold of his forearms. He did the same, gripping her tightly and hauling her up with a great deal of effort. Christine wasn't heavy by any stretch of the imagination, but Erik had to lift her vertically out of the opening, and he was injured. She felt guilty as she scrambled out of the hole, listening to Erik catch his breath as he replaced the grate in its spot. While he recovered, Christine savored the chilly night air in her lungs and looked around in wonder at the vastness of the city. It was as if she had never been above ground before in her life, so dim were her memories of freedom. Finally, Erik rose and took her hand again.

"Let's go," he said furtively, walking briskly off into the shadows. Christine followed him nervously as they darted from building to building, always staying in absolute darkness. At one point, a carriage was coming down the road, and Erik dragged Christine into a pitch-black alley, and they pressed themselves against the wall to hide from the passing coach.

They continued in this way, like cats in the night, until at last Christine saw the train station before them. It was quiet now, being early morning, but by the time they reached it, there was a dull cerulean glow in the sky. Christine's feet were aching so intensely after hours of walking that she began to limp. She hobbled behind Erik as they approached the station, and was surprised when he took her to the side of the building.

"We must wait here until six-thirty," he informed her, delving into the depths of a shadowy alley. "The train leaves at seven-forty-five."

"All right." Christine was panting at this point. She'd not physically exerted herself in this way since she spent hours upon hours dancing under the strict tutelage of Madame Giry. At the thought of the old woman who had betrayed her and paid with her life, Christine's eyes welled.

She stood in the shadows with Erik for a good long while, pondering their situation and how they'd arrived in it. Suddenly she heard Erik's voice whisper very quietly through air,

"I love you, Christine."

She wondered what he'd been thinking of that made him feel the need to tell her that, but she did certainly not mind him saying it. She smiled in the darkness and said softly, "And I you, Angel."

At last Erik pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. The blue glow in the sky had lightened significantly as they'd hid in the alley.

Erik said, "It's time to go."

Feeling butterflies in her stomach at the thought that they might be caught, that they'd seem too suspicious, Christine gulped and took Erik's hand again. He led her out of the alley to the front of the train station. They ascended the steps up to the main entrance and walked briskly inside.

"There's our train," Erik said, pointing out a large locomotive on one of the tracks. Above the track there was a sign that read, "_Milan."_

They dodged the few passengers who had also arrived early. Erik pulled the tickets out of his waistcoat pocket and checked the car number. They surreptitiously made their way to the correct car, where an agent stood in the doorway. Erik handed him the tickets and cleared his throat in a way that told Christine he was nervous. At his side, his hand twitched anxiously while the agent read the tickets.

"Madame and Monsieur La Morte," he said, eyeing their masks with great confusion. "Venice by way of Milan. A bit excited for the Carnival, are we?"

"Just testing out our costumes," Christine said with an uneasy laugh. The agent nodded but narrowed his eyes.

"Just inside here and to the right. Compartment seven."

He gave them back their tickets and let them pass, and Erik hurriedly led Christine on board the train and into their designated sleeping compartment.

Christine was delighted to see that the small wood-paneled room contained all of their luggage already. Erik began to cloak the room in privacy, pulling closed the window shades and locking the wooden door to the aisle outside. He then checked the trunk and bags to make sure all their money was there.

"We shall have to trade the money in Venice, of course," he said as he counted stacks of bills, "but it will go even farther there."

Christine sank onto the lower berth, feeling the thin mattress compress beneath her. There were throw pillows upon it, as if it were intended to be used as a sofa during the day. Regardless, Christine found herself sliding off her shoes and slithering beneath the wool blanket. She'd been awake for twenty-four hours solid now, and after the exertion of a sneaky trip across the city, she was exhausted. She took off her mask and tied it carefully around the metal bar that prevented a sleeper from rolling off the berth.

"Do you mind if I just… rest my eyes?" Christine yawned, realizing that she was still fully clothed aside from shoes. It didn't really matter how Erik answered her question, for she could scarcely keep her eyes open even if she'd wanted to do so. She burrowed her face against one of the pillows and sighed deeply.

"Go to sleep for a few hours," Erik said gently. "When you wake, we will have left Paris far behind us."

She felt him sink onto the little berth, perching himself upon its edge, and she felt his hand softly petting the curls atop her head.

"Besides," he said, and his words sounded distant because of how tired Christine was, "You need your rest if you are to grow our child in your womb."

She felt her lips curl up in a little smile, happily reminded that he supported her in this pregnancy. Before she could thank him for being so wonderful, her mind had drifted off into the realm of sleep.

* * *

She did not awaken for many hours, and when she did, she was struck by the bright light in the room and the steady feeling of movement beneath her. Erik had opened the window shades and was staring through the glass, seated on the little chair in the corner.

"Where are we?" Christine asked groggily.

Erik flicked his eyes to her and smiled gently. "Nearing Lyon," he informed her.

"We've left Paris." Christine said the words with a good deal of relief. The sunlight was almost blinding to her unaccustomed eyes, and she gazed in wonder at the green grass outside, the bright blue sky… vibrant colors she'd not seen in months.

"Indeed. We have left Paris," Erik nodded. He rose from his chair and walked across the little room until he reached Christine's berth. He sank down onto one knee before the bed and kissed her forehead gently. "We're free," he whispered, "and we shall never be prisoners again."

* * *

** Con Brio**

* * *

Christine sat up slowly, and Erik used his hands to help heave her into a sitting position. She was still staring out the window, bewitched by the bright colors of the passing countryside. She pulled herself off of the berth and walked slowly to the window, completely ensnared. She gazed out the glass with a little smile crossing her lips. There were dairy cows in the field they were passing. In the distance, the slightly rolling landscape undulated across the sky, painting swirls of emerald as it did.

"It's so beautiful," Christine whispered. It had been ten years since she had seen the countryside; the last time had been when her father was still alive.

"It is beautiful," Erik agreed, and she felt his presence just behind her, "but your own beauty is far more irresistible to me."

He stepped beside her and snaked his hand around her waist, drawing her near to him. Christine felt the little smile on her face grow a bit wider when she rotated her torso toward him and saw the spark in his eye. It was a familiar shimmer that she saw in him whenever he wanted her.

His other hand joined the first on her waist, and he tipped his head to the side a bit as he leaned in to kiss her. His lips brushed ever so gently against hers, and she shivered when he pulled away. The glint in his eye had grown brighter, and he smirked suggestively at her with a crooked smile that made Christine's knees weak.

"On a _train_, Erik?" Christine scoffed. She grinned and shook her head at the absurdity of it.

"Why not?" Erik demanded. "We are at last liberated, Christine; the least we can do is celebrate."

Christine rolled her eyes and glanced out the window again. She stared lovingly at the vision before her eyes, but then frowned when Erik pulled the shade down over the glass.

"What did you do that for?" she asked petulantly. Erik cocked an eyebrow.

"Privacy."

He was certainly determined, Christine thought to herself. She wasn't sure what her logic was in denying him, other than a distant fear that someone would break down their door and find them in the middle of the act. She supposed that was not the very worst thing that could happen, seeing as how they viewed each other as man and wife.

Christine sighed and nodded at Erik, silently giving him permission to continue seducing her. Rebuffing him now was only putting off the inevitable, anyway. If they were to be alone together in the cramped little compartment for a day and a half, there was very little chance of Erik keeping his hands off of her… or of her keeping her hands off of him.

Erik leaned in again to kiss Christine, but instead of her mouth, he went for her neck. She gasped when his lips landed upon the delicate skin beneath her ear, and she was dizzy with want when he began to lick and nip her flesh.

"Erik…" she said in a low moan, and he pulled his lips from her neck just long enough to whisper against her skin.

"Shhh," he hushed gently. "We must be very quiet, Christine."

"That's rather difficult when you're doing… _that_…" Christine uttered softly, gasping again as his mouth moved more firmly against her neck. "I shall try."

The pleasure he was inflicting upon her skin went straight to her groin, and she felt her entire body blush and heat up as he continued kissing her. The steady undulation of the train served as a sort of serenade, lulling her into a trance as she shut her eyes.

Erik tipped her head down so that her mouth met his, and he swept her into a deep kiss. His tongue traced circles on the roof of her mouth, and she found it nearly impossible not to moan into his mouth. She made a little choked sound, and her breath was shallow and rapid through her nose.

His hands were all over her. One was entangled in the curls piled atop her head, drawing her face ever nearer to him. The other roamed her torso aimlessly, going first around her back soothingly and then around to her décolletage.

Christine was suddenly very frustrated by how much clothing they were both wearing. She could scarcely feel his touch through the thick material of her dress and corset. She knew, though, that fully undressing was not an option. She reached between them and felt the growing lump in Erik's trousers, massaging it gently and urging him to become even harder.

Now it was Erik who seemed to have difficulty staying quiet. He pulled his mouth away from hers, desperately panting as Christine fondled him through his trousers. Her hands started working on the buttons there, as Erik kissed her forehead with trembling lips.

He pushed Christine backward gently, until her back hit the wood-paneled wall just beneath the lantern. He continued unbuttoning his trousers once he had her pressed against the wall, and Christine instinctively began to hike up her skirts. She held them at her waist and shut her eyes, too aroused to watch him and stay silent. She felt his hands untying her drawers and tugging them down. She kicked them aside anxiously and cracked her eyes, unable to resist him any longer.

He'd pulled himself out of his trousers and was stroking his cock gently with one hand, while the other reached beneath Christine's hiked skirts and rubbed gently against her entrance. He sighed deeply when he felt how drenched she was for him, and Christine drove her head back against the hard wooden wall as he touched her.

"Please," she whispered fervently, "Please take me now, Erik."

He looked as though he wanted to do nothing in the world more than he wanted to ravish her. His eyes glittered with the intoxication of desire, and he surged forward so that his mouth was beside Christine's ear.

She could scarcely hear him over the noise of the train's wheels against the tracks as he said, "Wrap your legs around me when I lift you."

With that, he seized Christine by the waist and heaved her upward. She obediently slithered her legs around him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Erik grunted quietly as he arranged her on his body, gripping her hips beneath her skirts.

Christine almost cried out as he drove into her, nearly unable to control her voice against the feel of fullness. He pushed himself deeply inside of her, until his pelvis was pressed tightly against her, pinning her to the wall. He immediately began pistoning himself at a vigorous tempo, driving Christine's body against the wall with each thrust.

Christine gasped and tried desperately not to moan, overcome with the feeling of him inside of her. Her struggle for silence was only made more difficult when Erik's mouth crushed against hers in an impassioned, burning kiss.

Erik seemed to realize that he was making as much noise by slamming Christine against the wall as they would by vocalizing. He stopped thrusting and pulled Christine off of the wall, still carrying her latched around his waist, his member deep inside of her. He walked briskly across the tiny room in two steps, reaching the bottom berth.

As they crashed onto the narrow little bed, Christine was abruptly relieved that the top bunk was currently tucked away against the wall above. Still, she wondered how there would be enough room for the both of them on the small bottom berth.

Erik seemed to answer that question by never once pulling himself away from her. He kept their bodies clasped and entwined as he arranged Christine on her back and resumed thrusting above her.

Christine's legs were still around his waist, allowing him deeper entry. She drove her head back against the pillow and tried desperately not to cry his name as she felt herself peaking. Above her, Erik grunted very softly with each push, his lips beside Christine's ear. His breath was hot and quick there, and the nearly inaudible sounds of his groans vibrated against her.

"Oh… _God_, Erik, I'm going to…" Christine's words were a desperate whisper as she felt herself climbing higher and higher, the pressure in her groin growing to an intolerable level. Erik's white shirt was wet with sweat on his chest, and Christine knew that he, too, was close to his zenith. They were pressed so closely together that Erik's organ ground relentlessly against her. The sensation was beyond the most divine she'd ever felt.

"Come for me, Christine," Erik murmured into her ear, his voice soft but his breath frantic.

She obeyed him, crashing off the edge as her walls contracted rhythmically around his thrusting member. Her entire body was overcome with heat, and her ears rang loudly. Even as she was climaxing, the back of her mind disciplined her to stay quiet, and she managed to simply pant through the culmination of her pleasure.

Erik thrust harder than ever against her, his hands gripping her shoulders so tightly it nearly hurt. A quiet groan ripped itself from his chest, his voice vibrating against Christine's ear. He slowed his thrusts and gasped as he came, until he finally heaved himself off of the breathless Christine.

He stood slowly and tucked his softening member back into his trousers, wordlessly fastening the buttons with shaking fingers. He turned and picked up Christine's drawers from the floor, holding them out to her reverently.

She took them, still winded and tingling, and pulled them on. She smoothed her skirts back down, though they were wrinkled from being hiked up and smashed. She turned onto her side and faced Erik, watching as he raised the curtain on the window.

Sunlight poured through the glass, making Erik's white mask appear brighter than ever. He put his hands on his hips and sighed as he gazed out the window.

"Well," he said finally, "Seeing as you are already with child, I suppose we are free to do… _that_… as often as we like."

"I suppose so," Christine agreed with a little chuckle. She had a feeling that she would not make it to Milan without her drawers coming off again.

It was twilight as the train pulled into the station at Milan. The car in which Erik and Christine rode would be continuing on to Venice, but they had a long wait at the station as they waited for the new passengers to board.

There was a soft knock on their door once the train had been stationed for about fifteen minutes, and Erik unlatched the door and pushed it open cautiously.

"Supper for sale," Christine heard an old woman's voice say, her Milanese accent strong.

Erik uttered some words in Italian to the woman and pulled a few bills from his pocket. Christine watched curiously as he took two plates from her hands and thanked her. He turned and placed the plates on the tiny table behind him, and then he took a bottle of wine and two glasses from the woman. He nodded his thanks once more and pulled the door shut once she'd gone.

"She didn't see me, did she?" Christine asked nervously as Erik began pouring wine into the two glasses.

"I do not think she did," he answered, "and, besides, even if she had, it would be of no consequence. I very much doubt that she follows local Parisian gossip, seeing as we're hundreds of miles from Paris and in an entirely different country."

"Then, once we're in Venice," Christine breathed with relief, "I'll be anonymous."

"Well, you'll be unknown," Erik agreed, gesturing for Christine to come eat the meat and rice on the plates, "but not anonymous. Your name now is Charlotte Palet, and I am Edmond La Morte. Those are the names we will be giving when we fill out a marriage certificate."

"Oh? And when will be doing that?" Christine asked, her voice amused.

"You are already my wife. All that must happen is the formality of legal marriage. As soon as we're settled into a flat in Venice, it will be the very first thing we do."

Christine did not want to argue with him. She did not point out that a legal marriage with false names was just as unofficial as what they had now. If Erik wanted to stand before the law and God and make his promises known, it was hardly right to stop him.

She stared down at the glittering ring on her left hand and chewed her lip. She remembered when she'd given it back to him on that night two years ago… she remembered the look of sorrow on his face. Then he'd looked resigned, sending her off with a nod of despondent acceptance. Even now, Christine felt her eyes burn with tears at the memory of how she'd left him, heartbroken and betrayed.

She would never betray him again. If what he wanted was a ceremony in which she could prove that, then there would be a ceremony. The names did not matter, and neither did the setting. What mattered was that he believed her fully, that he finally felt secure in her love.

Christine abruptly leaned across the tiny table and seized Erik's face in her hands, pressing her lips firmly against his.

"What was that for?" Erik asked with a grin when she pulled away.

"That," Christine said, "was because I love you."

* * *

**Acciaccatura**

* * *

A/N: Just a fair warning, this chapter is very dark. Without giving it away, I will tell you that it is rated M for reasons other than consensual sexuality. Reviews are much appreciated.

* * *

Erik drank half the bottle of wine by himself, while Christine abstained and had water instead. By the time the wine was half gone, Erik was lighthearted and tipsy, laughing with Christine as they discussed their new life in Venice.

Eventually, Erik cleared his throat and said, "If you'll excuse me, my darling, I must away to void my bladder."

Christine giggled at his choice of words and nodded. Erik reached the door and, as he unlatched it, he turned over his shoulder to smile at Christine.

"I shall miss you while I'm gone," he said, and she chuckled again. Then the door slid open and Erik slipped through it, closing it quickly behind him.

Christine stared out the window at the passing Italian countryside as she waited for him to return. They were an hour and a half outside of Milan, with a long way yet to go before they reached Venice. Christine was very anxious to arrive at their destination, not only because she was tired of being on the train but also because she was excited about the prospect of a life in the sunshine.

After a long while of daydreaming and staring out the window, Christine realized that Erik had been gone for an awfully long time. For a few more minutes, she wondered if he had simply needed more time in the privy car, or if there had been a line. But after he'd been gone for over a half hour, Christine could stand it no longer. She was worried about him now, thinking that perhaps he was unwell.

She slipped on her shoes and opened the door to the corridor, heading to her left toward the privy car. She passed another private sleeping compartment on her right, and she heard muffled grunts and moans from inside. Christine grinned surreptitiously to herself, thinking that some amorous couple was not being as careful with their voices as she and Erik had been.

But then she recognized one of the cries as one of pain and agony, rather than of pleasure, and she stopped walking. She furrowed her brow, listening carefully.

"Please... please let me go," moaned a low voice from inside the compartment, and Christine's heart raced as she realized the voice belonged to Erik.

She instantly began banging on the compartment door, shouting, "Erik? Whoever you are, let me in this instant!"

She tried to slide the door, but, as she had expected, it was locked from the inside. Christine thought she might run and find an attendant and demand that he open the door, but just as she began to run off, the door slid open and a drunken-looking young man poked his head out.

"Ah," he said, his voice oily and dangerous, "you must be the Freak's little slut." The man reached out into the hallway and grabbed Christine by the bicep, yanking her into the compartment and sliding the door shut behind them.

At the same instant that the drunken man covered her mouth to stifle her scream of protest, Christine saw with horror what had been happening inside the compartment.

It was very crowded now, for there were three strange men she didn't know inside of it, plus herself and Erik. Two of the men held Erik pinned to the ground, and Christine shrieked again against the hand that bound her when she saw him. He was unmasked, and the good side of his face was red and swollen. She could tell they'd been beating him, and he stared up at Christine with horror in his bleary, inflamed eyes.

"Let her go!" Erik cried, reaching out for Christine. For his words and action, he was rewarded with a swift kick to the stomach by one of the men. When Erik coughed desperately in response, Christine saw that there was blood speckled on his lips. "Please let her go," Erik moaned, his eyes pained in more ways than one.

Christine could not tear her gaze from him, horrified and frightened at what they were doing to him. She quickly felt the hand covering her mouth replaced by a gag of fabric being tied around the back of her head. The man holding her slammed her body up against the wall, and she heard more fabric tearing and felt her wrists being tied roughly behind her back.

"We will let her go," the man behind Christine said, his stinking breath hot upon her neck, "Once we've had our fun with the pretty little bitch."

He began to hike Christine's skirts up, and when she felt her drawers being yanked down, she shrieked against the gag in her mouth.

"Stop it!" Erik cried, panting frantically. The same man who had kicked his stomach now swung his boot at Erik's jaw, and Christine watched as blood poured forth from Erik's mouth. He moaned in agony, and when he spat out a molar, Christine knew they'd hurt him badly. "Please," he moaned softly, seemingly with as much voice as he could muster, "please let us go. We've done nothing wrong."

"No?" One of the men grabbed Erik's thin hair and yanked his head back roughly. "What makes you think a freak show like you should get a fine woman like this? You will learn your place, you ugly, misshapen scum. You're going to watch while she learns what it means to be with real men."

Christine yelped against the cloth in her mouth, as pain suddenly shot through her body. She felt as though she were being ripped open as the man behind her thrust into her roughly, for her entrance was dry and unwilling. Tears of pain and distress poured forth from Christine's eyes, streaming down her face as she felt the beast driving relentlessly into her. She sobbed miserably as she looked over to Erik. When his eyes met hers, she saw the rage and horror in his gaze, and he fought hard against the men restraining him. One of the men kicked him in the groin, laughing viciously, and the other punched the deformed side of Erik's face with all of his might.

Erik moaned loudly in agony, curling up into the fetal position and helplessly heaving with sobs. "Christine..." she heard him whimper, distraught over his inability to help her.

"Christine?" hissed the man behind her, grunting as he thrust continuously into her dry and unwelcoming body. "A beautiful name for a beautiful bitch."

Christine struggled hard, making as much noise as she could against the gag in her mouth. The man behind her spanked her buttocks harder than she'd ever been hit, and he uttered, "Shut up!"

But Christine shrieked and flailed, trying to kick her assailant. He whirled her around suddenly and punched her hard in the stomach a few times, grunting again, "Shut up!"

Christine did as he said, but only because she felt the room fading away from her. The last thought she had before she fainted was panic - for Erik, and for the child she bore. She could feel blood pooling in her lower abdomen, and she gasped in pain as the light disappeared, and everything went black and cold and silent.

* * *

"Christine..?"

She tried to open her eyes, but they stubbornly stayed shut. She could hear her breathing, ragged and shallow, but could not will herself to look at the voice calling her name.

"Please wake up, Christine..."

It was Erik's voice, she realized, and it was cracked with tears.

She forced her eyes open and was surprised to see more darkness. There was a candle beside her, she saw, and it glowed dully in the blackness that surrounded her.

"Where am I?" Christine croaked confusedly. She flicked her eyes to Erik's face. He wore his mask, but the parts of his face that she could see were swollen and bruised terribly. So, it was not a nightmare, then, Christine realized tearfully. They'd really been attacked.

"You're in a hospital in Verona," Erik answered tearfully. "Oh, thank God you are awake."

He kissed her hand, which he gripped tightly in both of his, and then pressed his lips to her cheek.

Verona. That must have meant that they had somehow made it off the train, Christine realized.

"What... How did we get here?" Christine asked, looking around the little room to see that she was lying in a little bed, and that there were medical supplies, including bloodied bandages, on a table behind Erik.

"A train attendant heard me yelling from inside the compartment," Erik began. "He forced the door open and called for help. The men who attacked us were restrained, and you and I were brought to a hospital at the train's next stop. Verona. Our belongings are here, and we are both alive, thank the Lord."

"Both?" Christine asked fearfully, remembering how viciously she had been pummeled in the abdomen. The pressure from internal bleeding that she'd felt was gone now, and she sobbed quietly as she asked Erik, "and the child?"

He did not answer at first, looking hesitantly away from Christine's eyes.

"Our child?" Christine demanded again, more loudly this time.

"There will be other children, Christine," Erik said finally, and Christine completely dissolved. She scarcely heard Erik's words as he continued, "It was too early in the pregnancy for them to do anything to save it. You bled very intensely, and they sedated you to keep you asleep."

"Oh, God," Christine moaned, overtaken by grief. She leaned forward to where Erik knelt beside the bed, and she gripped his bloodstained shirt tightly. "No. It isn't true."

Again, Erik said nothing, but rather tucked Christine's face against his chest and kissed her forehead. Christine felt a tear drip from his badly swollen eye onto her cheek, and the sensation only made her cry harder. The reality of what had happened fully struck her then. Erik had been beaten. She'd been raped. Their child had been murdered.

"We didn't even make it to Venice," she said into the material of his shirt. "We were never free."

"We will go to Venice," Erik promised, "as soon as you are healed."

"And you?" Christine pressed.

"I'm fine," Erik insisted briskly, but Christine looked up at his mangled face skeptically. Finally, Erik admitted, "I've got a shattered cheekbone, two black eyes, a broken rib, and rather a rather painful injury to my groin. But it's nothing, Christine, nothing compared to what they did to you."

He sobbed against her hair, as if just mentioning how the men had violated Christine was enough to break him.

"I couldn't stop it," he groaned in a low voice. "I couldn't save you. I failed you. I failed our child."

Christine shook her head insistently. "No, Erik," she said quietly, "You failed no one. The cruel world failed us both, and now we know why we must chase our freedom to the ends of the Earth."

The candle beside Christine fizzled as it reached the end of its wick, and the little room was plunged into darkness. The only sounds Christine heard were her own breathing and Erik's sobs. The only things she could feel in the dark night air were her own horror, her own grief, and the pain she shared with Erik.

* * *

**Poco a Poco**

* * *

The days in the Veronese hospital seemed to pass interminably. Christine slept on and off, sedated heavily by laudanum. The drug dulled the pain she was certain she'd be feeling in her abdomen, but it had other, less desirable, effects. Namely, Christine's words were slurred and often made no sense even to her own ear. Sometimes Erik would shake his head in confusion at what she said, and Christine would grow frustrated with him for not understanding her.

She often woke from nightmares with a shriek, still believing she was being raped. She would cry out for Erik and find him clutching her hand while she slept, helpless tears often streaming down his swollen cheek. Christine knew that he longed to help her, but they both knew there was nothing he could do to heal the mental wounds that had been inflicted upon her.

One day, Christine's eyes fluttered open to see that it was morning, and that Erik was slumped in a wingback chair beside the bed, fast asleep. Christine's dose of laudanum was wearing off, and she felt a throbbing pain in her belly.

"Erik…" she whispered, and he stirred to life quickly. His face was mottled green and purple now as his bruises healed, still swollen in spots. When he spoke, she could tell it hurt him to do so, because his speech was tight and strained.

"Good morning, my treasure," he murmured as he blinked sleep from his bloodshot eyes. He sat up straighter in the chair and leaned his elbows onto his knees. He did not smile at Christine, which worried her. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts… right here…" Christine gestured to her lower abdomen and frowned.

"It's still healing," he informed her quietly. "You had internal bleeding from the beating. But they don't want to give you any more laudanum, because they do not wish for you to become addicted."

Christine nodded slightly in understanding, realizing that she would simply have to cope with the pain. She could not imagine the pain Erik had felt, given all of his horrible injuries, and she wondered why she was the one in a hospital bed.

"They've been treating your wounds, haven't they?" she asked softly, her fingers reaching up to stroke Erik's battered cheek.

"I'm healing just fine," Erik answered cryptically. He placed his hand over hers upon his face and nodded reassuringly.

"And the other side?" Christine asked hesitantly, remembering how brutally the men had punched and abused the disfigured half of his face.

Her fingers moved to peel off his mask, but Erik gently pulled her wrist away. He shook his head and mouthed, "No…"

His reticence to show her his face only frightened Christine more about what they'd done to him. She looked around the room to make sure they were alone, and then she reached quickly and pulled the mask from his cheek. She gasped when his face was revealed to her, bringing her fingers to her lips in horror.

"My God…" she whispered in shock, beholding the destruction.

"More hideous than ever, no?" Erik smiled crookedly, sadness and shame echoing in his words.

The place on the side of his head where his skin gave way to barely-covered skull appeared irreparably damaged. He'd clearly been kicked there, and she could see where the bone had fractured beneath the delicate covering of skin. The tangled knot of flesh inside the opening was even more scarlet and inflamed than usual, and Christine cringed when she thought of the pain it must have been causing him. There were stitches running up his cheek from where the scar there had been split open. The flesh around his eye was purple and so irritated that the eye itself was nearly swollen shut.

Christine began to cry, shaking her head furiously. She could not bear to see him like this, in more pain than ever and feeling more deformed than he'd ever been. It did not help that the usually smooth side of his face was so damaged now, too. She reluctantly pushed his mask toward him, and he nodded gratefully as she cried for him. He put the mask back on his face, wincing as the material touched the tender skin beneath.

"My Angel," she lamented quietly, "My poor Angel."

Erik looked at his hands and brushed away dust that wasn't really there from his trouser leg. He cleared his throat delicately.

"I'm far more concerned about what was done to you," he murmured sadly. "They took my precious wife and they violated you… they used you to hurt me. It worked, I'm afraid. I shall never forget the sight of them as they…" He gulped heavily and shook his head. Christine almost did not want him to finish what he was saying, but he finally croaked, "As they took turns with you after you'd lost consciousness."

Christine's eyes went wide with horror. She'd known that evil had been done unto her, but she'd prayed that it had ended when the room faded to black around her. Now Erik was saying that they'd continued to abuse her even after they'd beaten her into oblivion.

"I tried so hard to get to you," he promised, and he began to tremble violently from the memory. "But every time I moved they kicked and punched and stomped upon me. Eventually I could barely move even when I tried. I never gave up, though, Christine. I wanted so badly to rip them off of you and break them. If their goal was to brutalize me and dishonor me more severely than has ever happened, they were very successful indeed. They took you from me and they took… my child…"

His voice cracked pitifully in his last sentence, and Christine stared at Erik, too numb from her disgust and fright to move or speak. As he dissolved into shaking sobs, Christine's hand drifted to his and wrapped around his balled fist.

"Where are the men now?" she asked quietly.

"The law got to them before I could have my revenge," Erik said with anger in his voice. "They were tried and sentenced quickly because of testimony and evidence. The doctor here, the man who found us… they served as witnesses in the very brief trial. Yesterday morning they hanged all three of the beasts. I tried explaining to you what was going on, that they were being put to death, but I couldn't break through the haze of the laudanum."

Christine felt guilty then, that she had been so far removed from him these past days. He had needed someone with whom to commiserate and debrief what had happened. She'd been a hopeless failure to that end, muttering nonsense and not comprehending his words. More than half the time, she'd been asleep anyway, and therefore had been completely useless to him.

"I'm so sorry, Erik," she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "I want to leave. I don't want to be in the same city as their bodies."

"You're still healing," he said soothingly, patting her hand gently. "You need to rest."

"_Me_?" Christine scoffed. "Erik, look at what they've done to _you_. You're the one who should be in a hospital bed."

"That would only give them a greater victory." Erik shook his head and sighed. "I hope they're forced to watch from Hell as you have nightmares about how they defiled you. I hope they burn forever."

There was a flash of rage in his swollen eyes then, and his words had turned into an angry growl.

"Please, Erik… I'm well enough to go. I just want to get to Venice. I just want to start over." Christine gulped as the realization hit her that her dreams of a happy life in Venice were irrelevant now – at least the ones where she stood in the sunlight with Erik and their child. It would just be the two of them, alone together._There will be other children_, Erik had told her, but at the moment she could not fathom how that would happen. It would be ages before she'd be comfortable with even Erik touching her the way he needed to in order to give her another child. Her physical wounds may have faded, but her heart was only just beginning to heal.

* * *

Erik had agreed to leave the following day, and as Christine limped aboard the train, she felt a flush of cold fear in her veins. She shook as they walked down the corridor to their compartment, wracked with vivid memories of Erik's cries and of the man's hands upon her.

Finally, they were settled in a private room, which was configured for daytime travel, with two comfortable chairs facing one another. There was a small table in the room, but it was different from the ones she'd seen on the last train. The curtains, too, were an altered color and pattern, and the wooden paneling on the walls was a dissimilar grain. Christine was grateful that the little space was not a facsimile of where their attack had taken place.

When the train began to move, pulling out of the Verona station, Christine sighed softly and looked to Erik. He was staring out the window, his eyes glinting with anger and regret.

"Please tell me you love me," Christine begged after hours aboard the train, for they'd been sitting in silence for too long and she had grown uncomfortable in the quiet. She needed him to reassure her of something, anything, which could give her a glimpse of happiness.

Erik flicked his eyes to Christine and, seeing her distress, turned his cheek until he faced her. His eyes bored deeply into hers as he murmured,

"I love you, Christine. I love you so deeply that it hurts, far worse than any physical wound. My love for you is so powerful… you have no idea, Christine. You are more loved than any woman has ever been. I would die a thousand deaths for you. So, yes… I will tell you that I love you. I will tell you a hundred times a day if it helps cure your scars. I think it every moment of every hour. Yes. I love you, Christine."

Christine suddenly realized that no one had ever spoken to her in such a way, not even Raoul when their love had been new. Raoul had told her she was beautiful; he'd promised her a long life of happiness and he'd professed love. But she had never seen in Raoul's eyes the kind of smoldering devotion she now saw in Erik's. She had never heard his voice tremble with emotion as he tried to explain the depth of his love. Christine understood now how very wrong she had been two years ago, when she'd left the bowels of the opera house with Raoul. She should have never rejected Erik, not when he loved her with such unfathomable passion.

She had loved him, even then, even as she'd shouted at him to let Raoul go. Even as she'd told him that she hated him, a piece of her soul had screamed at her to stay with him. That piece of her soul, Christine now comprehended, had been her instinct. She had left him against her better judgment, and it was only by the grace of God that she'd been brought back into his arms.

"I would suffer anything so long as you are not taken from me, Christine," Erik said, after a long moment of contemplative silence. He stared out the window again. "I've never been so frightened in all my life as I was when I thought I was going to lose you again."

"I'm here," Christine vowed. "I'm here forever, Erik." Out the window, she saw the Campanile di San Marco, the bell tower at the Basilica in Venice, rising in the distance.

"We're almost there," Erik noted, seeing the same thing that Christine was seeing.

An hour and a half later, they had disembarked the train and were waiting to board a steam-powered vaporetto to ferry them across the deep lagoon between the mainland and the city of Venice.

The unique gothic style of the buildings was visible even from where they stood, and Christine noticed how Erik's eyes glistened at the sight of the beautiful architecture.

As the vaporetto entered the Grand Canal, Christine was breathless. She forgot all about their injuries, at least while the little boat powered them under beautiful bridges and past vibrant buildings.

They disembarked in front of the Hotel Baglieri with Erik lugging their baggage off the vaporetto. It took some effort for him to do so, and he quickly summoned a porter to take their luggage inside. Christine looked around the lobby as Erik checked them into a room. She paid no heed to the way people were staring at him. He was immaculately dressed and groomed, after all. The only strange thing about him was the mask on his face and the bruises on his cheek. Erik handed over enough money to prepay for the room for a week. They would be staying in the hotel while they sought out a more permanent home.

At last, the concierge got Christine's attention, breaking her from her entranced inspection of the luxe lobby.

"Signora," he said gently, "Right this way, if you please. We will have your baggage up shortly."

Christine followed Erik and the concierge up a few flights of stairs until they reached their room. The concierge opened the door with a heavy key. He pushed open the door and the three of them stepped into a magnificent, bright space. The concierge walked briskly to the windows and flung them open, and Christine could hear the gentle swish of water outside. She went to the window and looked outside, gazing down upon the small canal a few stories beneath them. She was breathless with liberation and awe.

The room itself was lovely. There were fine draperies, and the walls were covered in silk. There was a hand-blown glass chandelier, and a marble vanity with glass pitcher and basin. Christine had lived in luxury for the two years she'd been with Raoul, but she was not immune to the allure of the Venetian extravagance.

"Signor La Morte," the concierge said behind Christine, "Here is your key. Please do let us know if there is anything at all you need."

"_Grazie mille_," Erik responded, and Christine heard the door open and shut as the concierge left. Erik latched the lock inside the door after he'd gone, and he cleared his throat mildly.

"I can scarcely believe that we are actually here," Christine breathed, still gazing out the window. "I was here once, you know. Venice. When I was very small, my father played here and we got to visit. It was one of my favorite places that I went with him." She turned over her shoulder and smiled weakly at Erik. "Perhaps it will become my new favorite place with you, too."

"Well, it's home now," Erik said, and he stepped up behind Christine. She felt him hesitate for a long moment, and then he gently wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled Christine back to stand beside him.

Christine had expected Erik's touch to elicit fear and discomfort, for in the wake of her attack she had flinched every time the doctor had put a finger on her. Instead, though, she felt relief and comfort when Erik put his arm around her. She turned to face him and wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. She pulled herself against him and embraced him warmly. She looked up into Erik's surprised eyes, which glistened in the sunlight.

"You're safe now," he said reassuringly, and he pushed a stray curl off of Christine's forehead. "I am here… _we _are here, and you are safe."

Christine put her head against his chest and stared out the window at the snaking canal below. She nodded against him and grasped his shoulders delicately, afraid that she would hurt him.

"I love you," Erik whispered. "I shall tell you a thousand times. I shall never let an hour pass in which I do not remind you… of how much I love you."

* * *

**Sfogato**

* * *

Erik tucked Christine beneath the plush blankets that night and kissed her forehead.

"I shall sleep in the chair," he said quietly, but Christine shook her head.

"Why?" she demanded. She knew why, of course. He thought it would frighten her to have a man in her bed so soon after her attack, but he did not know how much he comforted Christine. "Please do not leave me."

Erik furrowed his brow. "I shall never leave you," he promised. "If you want me beside you…"

"I do," Christine nodded fervently. "Please."

Erik nodded with surprise, and he looked neither pleased nor angry. He walked to the large wardrobe and started removing his clothing and hanging it up inside. He moved slowly, and Christine knew he was in pain. His broken rib had to have been hurting badly, she thought, as he winced and pulled his tailcoat from his arms.

"Tomorrow we shall find a dressmaker," he promised, "and get you new clothes. You shouldn't have to wear… what you were wearing…"

When they raped me, Christine finished mentally. She knew that getting rid of that dress meant as much to Erik as it did to her. He'd had to watch it all happen, after all, and he was nearly as scarred as she was from the experience.

"Thank you," Christine murmured, and she watched as Erik hung his formal shirt in the wardrobe and reached for a more casual, linen one. He put it on and began buttoning it, but Christine said softly, "You don't need to wear that, Erik."

His fingers paused over the buttons, and he looked over his shoulder at her. He flashed her a minuscule, embarrassed smile, and he put the shirt back in the wardrobe. He took off his trousers and shoes and walked in his drawers over to the bed. He gingerly lowered himself onto the mattress and lay on his back with a hiss of pain. He was as far away from Christine as he could manage to be without falling off the edge of the bed, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"You don't need to wear this, either," she said, and she slid across the mattress to gently pull his mask from his face. She reached beyond him and put it on the little table beside the bed. Erik nodded gratefully, staring straight up at the ceiling. Christine snuffed the oil lamp on the table, turning the screw until the flame disappeared and the room was cloaked in darkness.

There was moonlight coming in through the windows, casting shadows on the carpets. The moonlight provided just enough of a dull blue glow for Christine to see Erik's face a bit. She urged him to move closer to the middle of the bed, and he obligingly did so.

She pulled herself flush against his side. She would have cast an arm and a leg across his body, but she worried so badly about hurting him that she simply cuddled alongside him as closely as she could. She felt a gentle kiss on her head, and she heard Erik's voice say in a low murmur,

"Someday, Christine, when you trust me enough…"

"I trust you," Christine interjected. "I trust you and no one else in all the world." What she did not say, but she knew he would understand, was that neither of them was in good enough condition for anything physical to pass between them. Besides, perhaps he was right. Perhaps when he started to touch her body intimately, Christine would seize up and reject him. She prayed that she would not; she was determined not to do so. Only time would tell.

Erik rolled onto his side facing Christine, taking pressure off of his broken rib. Their heads were upon the same pillow, for they were lying so close to one another. Erik pulled Christine against him, more tenderly than he'd ever touched her, and rubbed his hand across her back soothingly.

She sensed no arousal at all from him; there was no indication of lust or desire. Instead, he was simply comforting her with his closeness. Christine, at last, felt safe again. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of Erik's steady breath and to the warm feel of his skin against her body.

For the first time in many days, she had no nightmares.

* * *

"How do you like it, Signore?" The dressmaker gestured proudly to the pale pink confection that Christine was wearing. Erik had offered to buy Christine more black dresses, but she had insisted that she was no longer mourning Raoul. This dress was such a pale pink that it was very nearly white, and Christine had selected the lacy material because it reminded her of the wedding dress Erik had bought for her two years earlier.

Now, she stood before a full-length mirror in the dressmaker's shop, three days after ordering the gown. She turned to Erik and hoped he was not too bored. This was the third gown she was showing him, for Erik had pressed Christine to get a few changes of clothing made. They'd paid extra to have the dresses finished quickly, and each one was lovelier than the last.

Erik did not look bored. He gazed with adoration in his eyes at Christine and replied to the dressmaker,

"E' troppo bello."

'It's very beautiful.' Christine knew enough Italian to know that that was what Erik had said.

"I think I shall wear this one home," Christine announced, admiring the dress in the mirror as Erik paid the remaining balance owed to the seamstress. It was the first time in months that she was wearing something other than black. To her, the pale pink signaled a new beginning… her life after Raoul, and her life after the happenings on the train.

"The blue one and the green one need final hemming," the dressmaker said. "You can pick them up tomorrow."

Christine nodded and took the old woman's hand in hers. "Grazie mille," she said gratefully, though of course the woman did not know how much relief her work was bringing to Christine's life.

Outside the shop, Erik walked beside Christine on the narrow sidewalk next to the small canal. Christine reached for his hand, and he squeezed hers gently. It was chilly outside, and Christine shivered a bit in her raw silk gown.

"We'll be home soon," Erik assured her, seeing how cold she was.

"I'd like to go somewhere first," Christine said lightly, and Erik eyed her curiously.

"All right," he said, "Where would you like to go?"

"To Town Hall," Christine replied, "to get married."

Erik stopped walking and froze. "Today?" he asked with a bit of disbelief in his voice. Christine giggled and nodded at him.

"Why not?" she pressed. "It was your idea."

Erik raised his eyebrows and sighed shakily. "You're to be my wife, then... Officially."

Again, Christine was reminded of how they would have to use false names on the license, and she thought sadly that it would not feel very official at all. Still, this was for Erik as much as for her. It was for both of them.

"I love you," she said softly, taking his hand in hers. "I do want this."

When they reached the council office, Christine walked boldly up to the clerk and said, "We would like to file for marriage, please."

The clerk eyed Erik's mask a bit skeptically, as though he thought they were nothing but silly French tourists in town for Carnival and that their request was hasty and impulsive. Still, he extracted a sheet of paper from one of his desk drawers and handed Christine a fountain pen.

"If you might proceed to one of the tables over there," he said, nodding toward the corner, "and fill this out, I will let the justice know you are here."

Christine nodded her thanks and took the paper to the table. Erik followed her, looking a bit bewildered. They sat at the small table and Christine began to fill out her part of the paper.

"Hmm... Father's name..." she lowered her voice and whispered to Erik, "I'm assuming I am not supposed to put 'Gustave Daaé?'"

"No, I suppose not," Erik agreed, "and I would not say he was a musician, either. He was... a mason."

Christine giggled lightly, trying to think of the father she remembered as a man who laid bricks. Her father had never been the type of man to do manual labor, so referring to him as a mason was about as far from reality as possible.

"Georges Palet," Christine said as she scribbled, "Mason. Deceased."

But then Christine had to fill in a lot of other information for which she could not provide the truth. Place of birth, name of previous spouse if deceased, mother's name...

Soon enough, Christine stared down at the page and realized that there was hardly a word of truth on it.

"Erik..." she whispered fervently, "this feels wrong."

Erik stared at her with disappointed surprise in his eyes. "You do not want to marry me, after all?" he asked quietly.

"No... I do want to marry you. You, though, are not Edmond LaMorte from Marseilles whose father was an architect." Christine shook her head and abruptly tore up the paperwork. "There is no point to doing this, Erik. I do not want a marriage if the entire foundation of that marriage is a series of lies. I would much rather keep things the way they are. You know I am your wife, and that is all that matters. Your wife's name is Christine, not Charlotte."

Erik nodded sadly. "I suspected you might feel this way," he admitted. He put his hand over hers and murmured gently, "Someday, Christine, I will have you as my wife in everyone's eyes, but it shall be you, not an alias."

She nodded, and they rose from the table slowly.

"Signore," Christine called to the clerk, "We will not be needing the justice of the peace after all. Thank you."

The clerk looked startled, but, as Christine and Erik walked hand-in-hand from the office, he muttered behind them, "Tourists."

* * *

"I'm going to take my work to the managers of an opera house here," Erik said one morning, "and see if they wouldn't care to produce it."

"I'm sure they would love to do so," Christine assured him, taming her wild curls with a wooden comb as she sat at the vanity in the hotel room. "They will love it once they've heard it."

"There's the rub," Erik noted. "I shall need you to accompany me and sing the female parts of a few pieces to show it off."

Christine turned over her shoulder to face Erik. "All right," she agreed. "When do you suppose that might happen?"

"This afternoon at four," Erik said lightly, flipping through pages of his music absently.

Christine felt her jaw drop. "That's in three hours!" she exclaimed. "Good Lord, Erik, you never give any warning for anything!"

Erik frowned, "That's hardly a fair accusation," he countered. "You knew days in advance that we were leaving Paris."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I suppose I should warm up and practice a bit, then," she noted.

A few hours later, the two of them crossed the Rialto Bridge, and Christine had a flash back to her vision of standing in this very spot with Erik. Only, in her vision, she'd been holding a baby in her arms. She felt a deep melancholy as she squeezed Erik's hand, weaving through the crowd on the bridge. He walked with a purpose, not stopping to admire the view of the Grand Canal, but Christine peered over the edge of the bridge as they walked. She admired the jade color of the water, the bright hues of the buildings that lined the canal, the sounds of the gondoliers calling out and singing.

At last they reached a dark pink building with archetypical Venetian gothic design on its crumbling exterior. "This is it," Erik confirmed after checking a small scrap of paper with the address scribbled upon it. He lifted his hand and swung the heavy iron knocker three times.

For the next thirty seconds, Christine's heart pounded in her chest as they waited for the door to open. She was not certain why she felt such nervousness. Perhaps it was anxiety over singing in front of an audience again. Something, though, nagged at Christine and told her that there was danger here.

Finally, the door swung slowly open, and a middle-aged man in a morning suit answered the door.

"Signor d'Aurora," Erik said politely, bowing a bit. "I believe you are expecting me."

"Indeed," said the man in the doorway. He was staring at Christine with wide eyes that made Christine shiver. "Signor La Morte," he noted softly.

"And may I present my wife..." Erik began, but d'Aurora cut him off.

"Yes. I know much of her," he breathed, and Christine felt her blood grow cold in her veins. Beside her, Erik stiffened. "I heard you sing in Paris, Signora, and I shall never forget it. No. How could one forget the angelic voice of Christine Daaé?"

* * *

**Vibrato**

* * *

Christine felt the color drain from her face. Her hands went cold and she began to tremble fiercely.

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with that name," Erik said smoothly beside her. "Daaé, did you say? As in the famous violinist?"

"Let us away with all deception, Signore," said d'Aurora, a knowing look crossing his small, dark eyes. "The woman before me is none other than Christine Daaé; I would recognize her anywhere. And you, Signore, must be the man they so fearfully called the 'Opera Ghost.'"

Christine was frozen where she stood, her mouth agape with horror. What on Earth were they to do now? Where would they go? How would they keep this man from informing upon them?

But then Signor d'Aurora's eyes softened and he beckoned them into his office. "Please," he said gently, "Come in and let us discuss your opera… Signor La Morte."

Erik hesitantly adjusted his mask upon his cheek and cleared his throat. He seized Christine's hand and practically dragged her into the office behind Signor d'Aurora. There was a grand piano in the center of the room to the right, and it was into this space that the Italian man led them. He took a seat in a wingback chair and gestured to a divan facing it. Erik pulled Christine down onto the sofa. She was still paralyzed with fear and found it rather difficult to move of her own accord.

"Well, then…" Signor d'Aurora clapped his hands upon his knees and sighed. "What is this opera you have brought me?"

Erik flicked his surprised chestnut eyes toward Christine. She could tell he was as shocked as she was that Signor d'Aurora was not going to dwell on the truth of their identities. Erik quickly reached for the leather folio beside him and, with a trembling hand, he passed it to the director of Teatro La Fenice.

"Though originally composed in French, Signore, I have since translated it into a more suitable Italian setting," Erik began. "_La Scelta Difficile_ – 'The Difficult Choice.' It tells the tale of a young maiden beloved by two men, one rich and one poor. Though the poor man loves her far more deeply than the nobleman, she chooses wealth. She is mistreated by her rich husband, and returns to the peasant to find he has wed another. Devastated, she commits suicide with a large dose of laudanum, and the poor man finds his love dead."

Signor d'Aurora looked alarmed. "A tragedy indeed," he lamented, and with a glance between Erik and Christine, he added, "with all the hallmarks of a plot known far too well to its composer."

Erik shifted uncomfortably upon the divan. "It is for a rather small orchestra and a scaled-down cast," he said quietly, skirting around the opera's autobiographical nature. "It is intended to be a more intimate work."

"Fascinating." Signor d'Aurora began flipping through the pages of hand-written music inside the folio. While he scanned the pages with his small eyes, Christine looked around the room in which she sat. She nervously coursed her fingers around her emerald skirts as she took in the blown glass light fixtures, the Oriental porcelain decorations, and the Turkish rug. She fingered a curl that had fallen in front of her eyes, tucking it carefully back up into her hairstyle. Finally, she heard Erik speak from beside her.

"I would be more than happy to give you a sampling of any piece, Signore, if you will allow me use of your piano. My wife can accompany me vocally should you wish to hear any of the work."

Signor d'Aurora nodded gratefully. He extracted a few sheets of music from the folio and held them out to Erik. "The duet in Act II between Luisa and the poor man – Pietro. If you would be so kind…"

He noticed that Erik was not taking the music, and he retracted his hand. Erik did not need the music. He had the entire opera memorized, for it was all the work of his own hand. He nodded and rose slowly from the divan, pulling Christine with him. She nervously stood beside the piano as Erik sat upon the bench and thrust the tails of his jacket behind him. He expertly began coursing his fingers across the keys, painting a lovely musical picture as the mournful piece began.

"_My love, my Pietro, it was always you_," Christine sang sadly, her voice quavering at first with nervousness but eventually settling into its normal timbre. "_How could I have been such a fool? How was I to know the depth of your love?_"

Erik's voice came clear and strong in response. "_Luisa, you beautiful creature… I tried to show you a thousand times, but your eyes were closed to me."_

Then they sang together, their voices mingling in harmony and resting perfectly against one another. "_Love comes but once, and though we parted, my heart is yours until the end of time. Dearest darling, through all these years, my heart was pining for you alone."_

As they continued to the piece, Christine was lost to her surroundings. She was no longer in a stuffy room in Venice. There was no opera director on the chair watching them. No. She was in a wooded glen with Erik, realizing how wrong she'd been to deny his love. The emotion of the piece forced a few tears to her eyes, and Christine fought them back to keep her voice from cracking.

At last the piece was finished, and Erik's fingers swept up the keys in a final flourish. There was a long moment of silence as he stared at the piano, and Christine saw his back heave with a deep sigh.

"_Bravi!"_ Signor d'Aurora cried at last. Jolted, Christine looked to him and smiled weakly. "Absolutely splendid, Signore. I shall want to premiere the work at La Fenice with all haste."

Erik relaxed on the piano bench beside Christine, the tension in his muscles releasing at the news. "That's wonderful," he said softly. "Thank you."

Signor d'Aurora continued, "I shall gladly offer you an advance of the equivalent of eighty thousand francs, with ten percent of all ticket sales being yours throughout the opera's run at La Fenice."

It was a relatively modest offer for a work as genius as Erik's, but, given their secretive circumstances, Erik was hardly in a position to turn it down. He nodded humbly and gratefully.

"And we simply _must_ find a way for Signorina Daaé to be a part of the production!" Signor d'Aurora exclaimed anxiously. "There simply is no other Luisa. The part was very clearly written for her voice."

"So it was," Erik admitted, "but do you think it wise to put her face before audiences that might recognize her?"

"I must say, I do not know why you are in hiding now that you've made it to Venice," d'Aurora said to Christine. She chewed on her lip. "After all, the Kingdom of Italy does not extradite to France. You are young, Signorina - or shall I call you Signora?"

"We are married… for all intents and purposes," Christine nodded.

"Well, you are young, as I said," d'Aurora pronounced. "It would be a crime to quash such a promising opera career for the sake of fear. It is my firm belief that you should make your debut at La Fenice under your real name. It will bring in audiences from far and wide. A voice as magnificent as yours deserves to be heard and enjoyed."

Christine blushed. Beside her, Erik shifted uneasily. "And what would she say to those who approach her and demand to know where she went after her 'disappearance'?" he demanded.

"Tell the nosy buggers that you came here after your husband's death to start your opera career anew," d'Aurora suggested. "One can hardly fault a woman not yet twenty years old for desiring a life of her own after being widowed."

"And my new marriage?" Christine asked tentatively, glancing toward Erik. He stared at his fingernails.

"It would be best, perhaps, if you were publicly single," said Signor d'Aurora. "Christine Daaé, the young widow and former Vicomtesse, resurrected to glory in Venice after disaster struck her career in Paris. Ah, yes. It has all the makings of a perfectly enchanting backstory. Perfect for an opera house named after the mythical phoenix."

Erik nodded slowly beside Christine. She was surprised to see him agree to d'Aurora's suggestions. They could not be seen together publicly. Erik would have to hide in the shadows again, though of course he was quite accustomed to doing so. Christine would be thrust back into the limelight, portrayed as a young woman robbed of her career by circumstance. It all seemed transparent on the surface, yet to hide her love and relationship with Erik seemed a true shame.

"Then it is settled," Signor d'Aurora said jovially. "La Fenice will premiere _La Scelta Difficile_, crafted by rising talent Edmond La Morte. The indomitable voice of Christine Daaé will grace the stage once more in the role of Luisa. Have we an agreement, then, Signore?"

D'Aurora held his hand out, extended to Erik in expectation of a handshake. Erik hesitated, but nodded finally and shook the elder man's hand.

"We have an agreement," he said, and Christine could not help smiling to herself.

* * *

"Erik," Christine said, brushing out her curls at her vanity once they'd returned to the hotel, "Do you find it at all strange or undesirable that you and I can not publicly be together now? If I am to star in an opera at La Fenice, you must be even more careful. You're wanted far more than I ever was. Everyone knows it was you who burned down the Opéra Populaire."

Erik stepped up behind Christine so that she could see his face in her mirror. She set the silver brush down gently upon the counter of the vanity and gazed up at him. He'd taken his mask off upon arriving back in their room, and she studied the deep scars upon his cheek. Erik placed his hands heavily upon her shoulders and flashed her a sad little smile.

"I do not mind hiding as long as you are in the sun," he told her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. "I will gladly watch my opera premiere from the rafters, so long as I hear your voice on stage once more."

"I'm frightened, though," Christine admitted. "What if, somehow, something goes wrong? I can not hide from the past if I am putting myself before an audience."

"No, you can't." Erik shook his head. "Nor should you. You've done _nothing wrong_, Christine, and I will prove that fact to anyone necessary. You must share your gift, your voice, with the world. I will write opera after opera for you, and you will shine."

Christine smiled gently and placed her hand over his where it rested on her shoulder. She stroked his knuckles softly and murmured, "You know, I could scarcely sing at all before I started my lessons with you. Any voice I possess is your doing."

"Creating a superior work of art requires quality materials," Erik said in response, dipping his head to inhale the lavender aroma of her curly hair. "I always knew you'd be perfect."

Christine melted then, feeling deeper love for him than she'd felt in quite some time. The sound of the nearby church bells told her it was seven o'clock. They'd eaten seafood and rice at a little restaurant on their way home from Signor d'Aurora's office. Erik had purchased two bottles of Prosecco wine, as well, so that they could celebrate once they got back to the hotel.

At the sound of the church bells chiming, Erik stepped away from Christine to close the window. It was chilly outside now that the sun had set over the jade lagoon. He poked the fire in the small corner fireplace to urge the flames to life. Then he pulled two elaborate wine glasses from the cabinet beside the fireplace and began to prepare them servings of Prosecco.

Christine turned over her shoulder to watch as Erik carefully poured the sparkling wine into the glasses. He approached her with one and held it out reverently.

"Something to wet my lady's lips?" he prompted seductively, and Christine took the glass gratefully with a little smile. She sipped the delicious, dry wine, slowly at first but then more deeply. Erik watched, amused, as she finished the entire glass by imbibing with quick, profound swallows. He stared into her eyes, his own deep gaze boring into her as a hint of desire flashed across his face.

Christine held her glass out to him, urging him to give her more wine. He obliged, filling her glass again and then sipping carefully upon his own serving.

"I was going to propose a toast," he said with a grin, taking a shallow mouthful, "but you jumped straight to drinking. I was about to say, 'Here's to the rebirth of your career, Christine,' and we'd clink glasses in a very romantic fashion."

Christine giggled, sipping deeply again until her glass was nearly empty once more. She had no idea why she was drinking so quickly. Certainly, the wine was delicious, but Christine had a nagging desire to feel as bubbly as the wine itself, so she gulped the Prosecco down as if it were the last liquid on Earth.

Now Erik looked a bit concerned, eyeing her empty glass with suspicion. "I did not buy the wine to get you drunk," he told Christine, shaking his head. "Perhaps you ought to slow down a bit."

Christine nodded, acknowledging the logic of his words, and set the empty glass down upon her vanity. She stood from the little chair at her vanity, not yet woozy from the wine, as it hadn't settled into her system. She approached Erik and reached out to snake her hands around his neck. He, too, set his glass upon the vanity, though his was still mostly full. He flashed her a crooked grin and set his hands gently upon her waist.

She'd changed out of her silk gown upon arrival at the hotel, and now she wore only a light shift with a cream lace dressing robe over it. She could feel the heat transfer from Erik's hands onto her flesh beneath the cloth, and she shut her eyes and sighed a bit. She was ready, finally, she thought. She was ready for him to touch her again the way a husband touched his wife. Certainly, it would be difficult to mentally break down every barrier her traumatized heart had put up. If anyone could do it, though, it was Erik.

"You love me, don't you?" Christine asked, leaning her head against Erik's chest and pulling her body flush against his. She felt his heart accelerate through the dress shirt and vest that he wore.

"Of course I love you," he murmured in response. "I love you more than any man has ever loved any woman, Christine. I will _never_ hurt you. You are safe with me, and I adore you."

That was all Christine needed to hear, all she needed to know. She flicked her eyes up to meet his and watched as one of his hands rose to his head. He smoothed his wispy hair, which had been wild and untamed after he'd removed his wig. His hand trembled as it coursed over his rippled, marred scalp, and his dark eyes met Christine's with a look of hope.

"Do you want me?" Christine asked, her voice as slick as oil as it resonated in the quiet hotel room. Erik gulped heavily and nodded enthusiastically. Christine could feel the wine settling into her veins. She felt the tiniest bit unsteady on her feet, and she sensed Erik's grip on her waist tighten as she swayed back and forth.

"Of course I want you," Erik said, his words soft and loving. "I _need_ you. But I will never take you unless you want it, Christine. You may be my wife, but, as your husband, I will wait patiently until -"

"No more waiting," Christine interrupted him, shaking her head. "Now. Please, Erik. Show me how much you love me."

He smiled crookedly again, his eyes shining in the firelight. His hands migrated to Christine's cheeks, and he pressed his palms firmly there. He drew her up to him as he leaned down, meeting her with a very gentle kiss. He touched his lips to hers, brushing their mouths against one another, and began to pull away.

"More," Christine mumbled, rising up onto her toes to follow him as he withdrew. "More. Please."

Erik did not need to be asked twice. He leaned back down and snuck his tongue between Christine's lips as his hands drifted to the tie around her waist. Soon enough, Christine's world was spinning. She was lost in his kiss – every time his tongue brushed against the roof of her mouth, she dissolved into shivers. She felt her robe slip from her shoulders, watched it pool into a heap of lace around her ankles. Her own fingers made their way to the buttons on Erik's torso, working off his black silk vest and then his crisp white shirt. She pushed them off of his chest and he shook them to the floor before delving into another very deep kiss.

Christine's hands wandered to the front of Erik's trousers, feeling his half-hard cock through the material. Erik gasped at the sensation of her fingers. He had been so long deprived of her intimate touch that he instantly hardened at the feel of her. Christine grinned to herself as she felt him firm up beneath her hands, which teased and tormented him through the wool of his trousers.

She could tell he was holding back. Normally by now he would have ripped her shift from her body and urged her roughly onto the bed. She knew he would be gentle tonight, that he would control himself against the wildness of his desire in order to make her feel safe and loved. She appreciated the courtesy, but at the moment wanted nothing more than to be naked and entwined with him.

So Christine whipped her own nightgown over her head and tossed it aimlessly to the ground. The wine was contributing to her arousal, and she felt moisture blossom between her legs as she glanced down to see the tenting of Erik's trousers.

"Christine?" Erik murmured as she leaned up to kiss him again. She sighed into his mouth.

"Hmmph?" she moaned, her hands working on the buttons at his waist.

"You asked me to show you how much I love you," Erik reminded her when at last their lips parted.

"I did," Christine affirmed, nodding. She did not quite understand his point in repeating her words.

"I would love to show you," Erik said, gazing deeply into her eyes and brushing a stray curl from her forehead. "Will you join me on the bed?"

Christine felt her knees go weak. His tender, yet eager willingness to love her made her head spin with desire. Perhaps it was the wine, she thought distantly as he escorted her to the mattress. Perhaps not.

Finally, Erik guided her up on top of the brocade coverlet and stood beside the bed. Christine settled back against the pillows and watched as he stripped off his unbuttoned trousers, shucking his drawers with them. He was already firm and erect, his member glistening at its tip with the first fluids of his arousal.

Christine gulped heavily, feeling nothing but want and love toward him. There was no fear, as she had been worried there would be. There was no hesitation. Not toward Erik.

He climbed onto the bed with her, the sight of his muscles rippling as he moved sending tremors throughout Christine's body. She watched with wonder as he situated himself between her knees and urged her legs apart gently. His eyes never left hers as his face lowered. Christine could feel herself growing wetter by the second as he slowly sank toward her entrance. She gasped deeply when he kissed her Venus mound with trembling lips.

"I love you," he assured her, his breath hot against her entrance. "I love you, Christine."

"Erik…" Her voice was strained and distant in her own ears. Her head drove back against the pillows at the first feel of his tongue, lapping gently around the outside of her velvet folds. He began to suckle her mildly, drawing her clit between his lips and giving her the most intimate kiss they'd ever shared. Christine heard a low, desperate cry escape her lips, and her hands gripped anxiously at the brocade coverlet. She could feel his breath against her as his tongue coursed lazily around her entrance. Finally, he plunged his tongue inside of her, hooking it against her most sensitive spot and kissing her clit again. Christine began to pant frantically, and her ears rang as she began to slowly climb a peak. She was dizzier than ever, feeling heat spread through her body like an out-of-control fire. She knew she was drenched where he was kissing her, but he lapped up her essence and seemed to enjoy it. He moaned against her, his low and growling voice reverberating and sending vibrations coursing through Christine. She felt her back arch, and she began to play with her own pillowy breasts as he pleasured her.

At last she crashed through the glass of her orgasm. Erik's hands gripped her hips and held her pulsating entrance firmly against his lips and tongue. He licked frantically as she came, gasping and moaning nearly as loudly as she was. Christine clutched at Erik's head, feeling his scarred tissue beneath her shaking fingers. At last her climax began to subside, and she sank heavily against the pillows as she tried to catch her breath.

Erik pulled himself up to lie beside her on the bed, waiting for her to recover. Christine's eyes flicked over to him and watched as he licked his lips, a satisfied smile crossing his damaged face. His hand drifted to his member and began stroking it gently, as though he could not resist touching himself in the wake of Christine's implosion. Christine watched with wonder as his palm coursed over the tip, spreading the clear fluid there down over his shaft. He pumped his hand slowly, always pausing at the top to pay special attention there.

"Erik?" Christine asked cautiously, propping herself up on her elbow. Erik turned his head slowly to face her, his eyes glistening with intense arousal. His hand did not stop its steady motion on his cock. He looked at her expectantly, so Christine prodded, "Are you going to take me tonight?" Erik shook his head no, and Christine's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why not?" she asked, rather indignantly.

"We'll work our way… back up to that…" Erik assured her, nodding soothingly. His breath hitched in his throat, and Christine glanced down to see that his organ had become more engorged than ever and was visibly throbbing. "Tonight… I simply wanted to show you how much… how much… I love you."

Erik gasped and began to speed up his pumping motion. His cock was slick with pre-ejaculate, and Christine watched in wonder as he pleasured himself. She wondered absently to herself how many times he had done this in his life. He'd admitted to her once that he was nearly forty years old, and Christine knew she had been his first sexual conquest. Years of lonesome pining had to have meant many solo sessions, she suspected. Indeed, his hand pumped and glided expertly over his shaft and tip with a dexterity Christine could never hope to match. A big part of her longed to reach out and touch him, to use her own hand to give him pleasure. But another part of her simply wanted to watch in fascination, silently grateful for his caution in rushing the resumption of lovemaking.

Christine's eyes went wide when Erik emitted a growl through gritted teeth. His hand slowed and his grip loosened as his throbbing member pumped his seed onto his stomach. Christine watched the milky, viscous fluid jet forth and land in little puddles on his skin. She felt her cheeks flush, though from what emotion she could not say. Erik panted and let himself go after a few more strokes, dropping his softening member to rest against his sweat-sheened flesh.

"I love you," he said again as Christine rose to fetch a wet washcloth for him. She smiled gently to herself.

"As I love you," she assured him, striding quickly to clean off his stomach.

"You are a delicious little creature, do you know that?" Erik said playfully, smiling weakly up at her. Christine grinned, embarrassed, and shook her head. "It's true," Erik insisted, "and after I see you on stage once more, where you are supposed to be, I shall bring you home and make love to you until you can stand it no longer."

"Rehearsals are to take over a month," Christine reminded him. "I should hope we would have made love many times before the premiere."

Erik's eyes softened and his lips curled up happily. "Whenever you are ready to receive me, my love, I am here."

Christine put the washrag back in the basin and joined Erik once more on the bed. They nestled, nude and happy, beneath the warm blankets. Christine curled her naked form against Erik, feeling his hard muscles melt into her soft curves. They fit together perfectly. In her last moments awake before she drifted off to sleep, she realized that she was experiencing untainted happiness for the first time in weeks. Her mind was devoid of fear, of apprehension or of unease. Instead, she began to dream of Erik's opera, of singing once more before a large audience.

In Christine's dream, she could see the Venetian crowd applauding as she took her curtain call. She could hear cries of "_Brava!_" They came from the gallery, from the boxes, and from the catwalk above the stage. There, high above the presentation of his masterpiece, a composer cheered for his prima donna.

**_A/N: I want to thank everyone who has stuck with this story through my prolonged leave of absence. I am so grateful that you are reading again. Please, please, please be so kind as to leave a review. I really appreciate any and all feedback._**


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